Goodbye
by heyshalina
Summary: 'I am writing to you today because I am going to die tomorrow. I just wanted to say one last goodbye.' A series of one-shots featuring every soul forced into the Hunger Games. Because everyone should be able to choose their way out. Read and review!
1. Rue

**RUE-DISTRICT 11**

I want a dark coffin.

Nothing too glamorous. Certainly not shiny. A mahogany coffin that hasn't been gleamed and shined to perfection just to be buried deep in the ground.

I don't want a big funeral. All of the family, yes, and the kids from school. The workers, too. They'll want to see me go. I'd invite the mockingjays, too, but of course I won't be there. Well, I'll _be_ there, but really. Just have Leigh do it. Line them up in the trees and when my dark mahogany coffin is lowered into the ground where all the other dead tributes go, sing my little tune. I love music, you know that! Music must be played during the ceremony. And wreaths. There has to be wreaths. Three on my coffin. All made from colored leaves, so that it's colorful. Apples on the wreaths.

The seats will be white. Not pure white. Off-white. Ivory. The wreaths will be on the ends. Red ribbon will drape the seats. And it will be in the apple orchard.

You know I love the apple orchard. This will probably not be able to happen, but it would be perfect if the ceremony was in autumn, to match the wreaths. The sun will be shining. It will be warm but crisp. A red lining will mark the trail up to my coffin.

Bury me next to my favorite tree in spirit. Keep something of mine to keep there. They will never let my body go where they grow the fruit for Panem. But it is nice to dream. Dress me in my red dress, the old one. It is so pretty. Keep my other clothes, all of them, for my siblings. They will be sad, they will cry, but you have to keep them strong.

I'm on the train now, and I hope that this gets to you. Thresh is beside me, staring out the window. He might win, he is experienced, you know. But, if they have lied to me like they have my whole life, this will not reach your fingertips. You know all of this, no matter how many words I write down. I would like to write goodbye.

So write on little strips of paper your goodbyes, and bury them with my body so that I can read them before my spirit dies.

Though I know that that will never happen. I will be in the orchard, in the tops of the trees, in the schoolyard, in the house, in the streets, in the Gathers, everywhere. Because even if Thresh doesn't make it out we shall be remembered. Remember me. Sing me in your songs and tell me in your stories. I will try, Mother. I will try.

Not to die.

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**Thank you for reading. Please review! If you wish to request a person to be written about, please submit it in a review. Anyone that has ever been mentioned in the series that has been in the Hunger Games I will eventually write about, and if people want someone in particular I will write theirs sooner. Thanks!**

**Disclaimer: I don not own the Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins.**


	2. Foxface

**Here's the next chapter! I had some complications writing Foxface, because we know nothing about her, really. Here it is, though. Reviewing makes me write, and post faster, and it also makes me happy. Thanks to those who subscribed! OK, R&R! Enjoy! Don't forget to request!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own what I'm writing about, a.k.a the Hunger Games. Really, if you think about it, I don't even own the words in this story, or the words I'm using right now. :O**

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FOXFACE-DISTRICT 5**

She doesn't know my name. As it should be. I remember what you said to me. Never let your enemy know who you are. Your last words to me before I was carted off to this hellhole. And my last words? I promise.

I'm trying to keep that promise. I'm stealing from the Careers. Food, supplies, other things. I've been watching them. I know who they are, but they don't know who I am. As it should be.

When they went on a killing spree, I snuck out to steal some food. A couple apples, some dried meat, cheese. But you now what I actually found? Paper.

And so I am writing this. I took three sheets of paper. I'm a bit ashamed, because I ate some of it. But I took some berries and a stick and started writing this, even if I promised myself I wouldn't.

My mentor, after telling me my strategy, asked me to write a letter home, as a last goodbye, a funeral request, if you may. She said everyone was doing it. She said that she did it when she was in the Games. I spat and said never. I was not going to let them see me write and address my family. My friends. I said I would not.

That promise I did not keep. Here I am, writing this letter. I guess it's a consolation to myself. Loneliness keeps me sharp, though. That's why no one catches me. No one knows I'm here. They forget about me, and that is why I am going to win.

She might. I never heard of a twelve so experienced. But she, she doesn't even know my name. That is why she is going to die.

I know every tribute. Their name, age, district, weaknesses. Her name is Katniss. She loves her district partner. A horrible weakness. All she knows of me is my district.

I'm keeping my promise. I'm going to live. Even if I don't, it's not like I have any choice of funerals. District 5, the hell of Panem. Other than District 11, I think we have it the worst. Whenever someone dies, if they were sick, they are cremated and incinerated, making sure nothing comes back. If you die naturally, or from the Games, your body is taken from your family. No one knows what happens. But I found out. They experiment on you. I can't let that happen. I have to win.

No one else's letters are going to get home. Mine is. I'm hiding it from the camera's. Just for your benefit, when you find this letter and retrieve it from my shirt pocket, check in my shoe. My token, I'm keeping it. They can't take you away from me. Death took you away five years ago. I won't let it take me.


	3. Cato

**I feel a bit ashamed for have liked writing this one, but I did, so oh well. This one isn't sad, well, maybe a bit. It's Cato, what do you expect? You might see a trend in how the tributes don't trust that their letters will make it home. It's the Capitol. That's what tends to happen, wariness, paranoia, whatever you want to call it. I want to thank you ALL for sending such kind reviews! I'll write faster with more reviews, AND if you request! Thank you so much, and enjoy, read, and review!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games nor Cato...I'm not sure if I want to...he's kind of scary. oh well.**

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CATO-DISTRICT 2**

Hey, Linda. Try not to show this to Dad, alright? He'll think I'm…soft. Soft people don't win the Hunger Games, like I will.

I'll keep this short and sweet. I'm in my room at the Training Center, getting some shut-eye before I go out and wow Panem in the Chariot Rides. I'll be the eye of all the adoring girls and envious men. They will love me and sponsor me. And I will win.

My idiot of an escort wants to write a letter to home, like funeral plans if we don't make it out of the Arena. I think it's a load of crap. I'm gonna win this, Ma, and don't you forget it! You told me that I may not come home, well you were dead wrong! There is _no_ competition, other than Clove, but I can get ride of her in a second. I am coming home, and Dad will be proud of me! I will be the prized victor, the one remembered forever in the 2nd District of Panem!

Who the hell am I kidding? This is never going home. This is just some stupid diary thing so they can attempt to get inside my head. Well, it ain't gonna happen! No way! No one can know nothing about me! I will go into that Arena, murder every single sorry sap and come out victorious. I will live in the Victor's Village by myself, with another house for you people. I'm sick of it all, you know that? And then a few years from now, if not next year, I will mentor more victors until the people of District Two are known as Gods. Live a perfect life, marry the pick of the litter of the most beautiful girls of the Capitol, and have victor kids, too. I'll grow old in luxury, and have them put me out when I'm strongest. No pain, no regrets.

Really I'm just writing this because I'm bored. I don't need any funeral plans, I'm living anyway, but I'll write whatever, just to humor these simpletons.

Linda, don't even bother asking for my body. I'm not coming home if I'm not a winner. Dad'll just spit on me and throw me over a bridge, or somethin'. Not really, but my pride will be burned beyond repair to face him, even if I'm dead. But that won't happen, like I've been saying.

Instead of coming back to District 2, just have my body cremated. If I die, but Clove wins, then have her do this, but if not then I guess you can come to the Capitol and do it. Tell Clove to take my ashes in a case and go to the top of the Training Center in the Capitol. Get on a hover car and spread my ashes over my Panem. My Capitol. My life.

Well, I gotta go, Linda. Make sure you take care of Dad, aye? I'll be out winning over the suckers I live for.

See you later.


	4. Marvel

**Hey! Thanks for all of your awesome reviews, I hope they continue! :) so I did get a request (thank you!) but I already had this one done, soo your request will be next! OK, so enjoy, read, and review! :D**

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything. Even if he killed Rue I actually like Marvel, but I don't own him cause he is a Rue-killer.**

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MARVEL-DISTRICT 1**

I was never really liked. I went from popular to practically emo outcast in the matter of a year. Why? You know. My obsession of the Games. I never trained as a little kid, because you guys didn't want that for us. For me. But as I started to watch the Games, actually understand them, I wanted that. I _wanted_ to be that victor with his hand held high in the air with the trumpets blasting and the crowd cheering. I admit it. I wanted fame.

Now I am starting to doubt myself. Especially after meeting Cato. I'm doing this in a rush, because me and my partner are going to jump on the chariot soon. You'll know what everyone looks like sooner than I do. Cato is the scariest guy I have ever met. With the Career alliance I can survive for a while, I know I could anyway, but I'll have to bail with him there. I don't…I don't know if I'm going to come home. I was so confident before, but now…I think I'm going to die soon. But I'll live it up. Take care of Glimmer, at least. I don't know why she volunteered, she looks so fragile.

I have to go soon. Hopefully you actually receive this letter. So you know that I know how big a mistake I made. I'm only sixteen. I've only been training for two years. Why? Why did I volunteer? Why did I give my life away? Why didn't I…say goodbye?

All my friends dumped me the moment I entered advanced schooling, like everyone does at fourteen. I started training. You guys thought it was a phase, that I would get over it, but I didn't. I trained harder. You then tried to stop me. I became defensive, mean to you. My friends didn't like me anymore. They trained, too, but they never worked as hard and as often as me. I wanted to win. I wanted to become a murderer. And I regret every single moment of the last two years of my life.

On reaping day I was ready. Mom told me I looked handsome, and Dad warned me about the risks I was threatening to take. I was the nicest I had been in a year. I stood in the front of the crowd of the sixteen year olds. It was hard. Everyone wanted to volunteer. I was willing to hurt someone to do it. And now I look back on it and want to cry. I was so stupid. When that seventeen year old boy, _seventeen_, was called, the waves of "I VOLUNTEER!" Were so loud, I almost ran away. But I didn't. I made the stupidest move of my life and pushed them all away to get to that stage.

And now I am going to die. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry Mom, for giving your little boy away to the horrible death I know I am going to experience. Just please forgive me for being as horrible as I have been. Know that I love you, and that I want to take it all away. Keep me close. When I come home, dead or alive, I want you to know that I love you. I really do. I'll try my hardest to become the killer you hoped I would never be.


	5. Thresh

**Again, I'm sorry these aren't your requests. I also had this one done, and i have 3 requests (yay) with one of them almost finished! Soo, I hope you enjoy this one! I 3 Thresh. I would make a story for him, but I'm not sure how well that would go. Anyway, read, review, and most of all, enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own. No, no, no, no! Yeah...no.**

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THRESH-DISTRICT 11**

Uhh, hi. I guess? I'm not even sure who I'm writing to. Is it myself? Them horrible people pushing me around like a monster? My mentor? Little Rue sitting here next to me? Or am I actually writing to you, Lemmy? Are you going to read this? Or am I just writing this stupid piece of paper in vain, pouring my feelings into a little crumpled piece of trash that my family won't even get! No, I'm sorry. I can't write these things down, Lemmy, in case Ma actually gets this. If you guys do get it, it'll go to Ma, but remember, it's for you.

I can't think about the future to come, the next final days, because if I do, I'll just get clouded, and when I get clouded, I get angry. When I get angry, I break down, and I can't cry in front of itty Rue, she'll start crying or something. Then were will I be? I feel like I need to protect myself in that big arena, but how can I protect myself, when I wanna protect Rue too? She's like you, Lem. So small, but so capable. I hope.

Hey, you know what? I was asked to join the big Careers and their alliance, and for a mo I actually said yes. I got all these butterflies and I actually felt like I was special, you know, they thought I was useful and such. But then I got this dreadful feeling deep in my gut, I guess, from the stare of that she-devil and her district partner, who had a smirk on his face. It was like he was saying to me, 'you might be all big and strong, farmer boy, but I'm bigger, stronger, and I'll kill you in a second.' He's scary. I mean, that's why I said no. I could beat almost anyone in the arena, but if it came right down to it, I don't think I could fight that big mass of monster. Rue looks at me like she doesn't know whether to trust me or idolize me, just cause I'm big. I'm not that big, and certainly not ready for this. Sure, Tray and I fought with big sticks in the field when we weren't s'posed to, and I always took the beating before getting back to the plow, but that doesn't make me liable to kill nobody! All the Peacekeepers, they push and shove me around with big clubs and hit me if I step a toe out of line. I'm like an…animal they have to cage to keep from killing or something. But they let that Cato beast walk around and do whatever he wants without a second glance? They're afraid of him, that's what. You know, two Peacekeepers held my arms and dragged me to the Training on the first day, like I was going to turn and strangle someone if I didn't get my breakfast biscuit. We don't even have breakfast biscuits in Eleven! And, I just bathed a couple days ago for the first time in a year or so. I've been telling Ma that every month I washed with the plant hose, but the first time I tried that I got hit. Tell Tray he can't try it. He'll get hit too. I don't want that for him, now that he's taken over the plow.

Well then, of course I'm gonna try to come home to you, Lem, and Tray, and Ma too, even Pa. If I come home I'm gonna march right up and hug Pa right out, no matter what happens. And if I die, when he dies, I march up and hug him in heaven, too. I'm sorry I yelled at him, and practically wrestled my daddy out of the room into them Peacekeepers. Maybe _that's_ why they handle me like a criminal. But, at my funeral, Lem, I want you to write the speech and such, but tell Pa that I'm sorry, and that I loved him. I loved all of you. Oh, and little sis? Plan it all, I know you can. But my one request? No one wears anything fancy. I will be remembered as I was, and you know me, I never wore nothing with a button or tie, no one does, so don't try for me.

I…I gotta go, um…get carted off to jail again. I gotta show the Gamemakers what I can do, so that I can see you again. Hope to hold you again, little sis. Love you.


	6. Clove

**This chapter is...creepy, scary, and murderous. There's no other way to put it. I scared myself. woww. I'm not a fan of the 'oh clove was a good girl and then she had something bad happen so she wanted revenge on life' thing. No. In my mind, she's a weird, bloodlust person. But I am a fan of the 'cato and clove had a thing' so you'll see hints of that. Alright! Thanks SO much to all you people who reviewed! I love it and it is why i am posting everyday, but soon (very soon) it may be a few days between posts. :( sorry!**

**Disclaimer: Iway oday otnay ownway ethay Ungerhay Amesgay. PIG LATIN YES.**

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CLOVE-DISTRICT 2**

Hello, Thresh. I've been watching you. You're going to die.

You killed me with a rock. A _rock_. I hate you. And now I'm going to kill you. Cato shall avenge me. He will murder you very soon. Hours, if you think about it. It only took minutes for me to settle into the world of the dead. Really, I already knew that I was going to die eventually, and when I did die, I would not be going to heaven.

Did you feel for her? Is that why you dented my head in? It's hideous, you know. Whatever killed you doesn't go away when you die. The world isn't suddenly all happy and glorious again when your oh-so-goodie soul soars up to the paradise of the afterlife. I have this giant _dent_ in my brain, eleven. The shape of your bloody rock. I've been watching everyone in the trials of death, along with life. I do hope Cato survives. But if not, I'm waiting for him, although I do not want to see the injuries in which he endures in his death. Those 1 idiots are still in trials, Glimmer acting like the little innocent angel no one knows her to be and Marvel crying his eyes out, trying to play that he was forced by Cato himself to kill. I enjoy looking at the others' death blows. Glimmer weeps perpetually because she is no longer gorgeous, instead she is quite ugly with her humungous bulging trackerjacker boils covering every inch of her body except for her beautiful, stupid blond hair. Maybe if you don't stay in the hellfire your injuries go away. I knew it. That stupid, shallow, horrible vain streetwalker wants to be pretty again. I'll laugh if she stays like that forever. Marvel gurgles as he talks, twelve's arrow still lodged in his throat. That's why he wants to go up. Neither of them will. I know it. They'll join me behind this blood wall and I will make their deaths miserable.

My family, my idiot family in District 2, buried me whole. It was a wonderful funeral, I thoroughly enjoyed it, watching all of those people speak on my behalf. But they did not cremate me. They did not honor me. They knew, at least my mother knew, that this was my wish. She did not follow this. She defied my spirit. For this she shall pay. Everyone will pay.

Oh, Thresh. You stupid, cocky little piece of scum. You'll go to heaven. Oh, I'm sure of that. You only killed one person. And she went to hell herself. But, really, all I want to see is you. I want to see what Cato did to you. Will you be stabbed so dreadfully that no one will look at you? Will he smash your body to pieces so the attendants of death will have to help you? Or will he strangle you slowly and then slice you with his sword, so that you are a deathly blue with a bloody hole in you stomach? Oh, I want to see.

Watch your back, Thresh. I'm waiting for you.

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**Ehh, creepy! R & R PLEASE!**


	7. Finnick

**This one is a bit different. I was thinking on how to do Finnick and I came up with this. : / its not the best one. But I think of it as a bit of a say, preview or at least insight to a story I may write in the future about him, cause he's one of my favorite characters. This is like 3 different messages, its a bit confusing, sorry! Thanks for reviewing this it makes me so happy so please continue! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Ok, 7th time's a charm. I do NOT OWN ANYTHING. thank you and have a nice day.**

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FINNICK-DISTRICT 4**

Finnick Odair, this is a message from the Capitol. Despite your resists on the matter, if are not our said 'model victor', and do what we tell you to do, there will be consequences. If you ever want to see your loved ones again, you will stay in the Capitol and do what we say.

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_No one volunteered. It's District Four, mom, and no one volunteered for me. Is it because they think I'm capable? 'Cause I'm not. Is it because no one cared? That's probably it. Even my District Partner seems to have a better chance than me. She looks at me weird. I mean, I'm fourteen, and she's seventeen. She volunteered for a fifteen year old girl, so why didn't anyone volunteer for me? It isn't fair. All the girls look at me weird. I don't like anyone here. All I could think about on the train was that girl from school, Annie, and that she came into the goodbye room, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and whispered goodbye to me. I flushed as I watched her skip away, and now I can't look at any of the girls here, no matter how much they look at me. They have a trident and net here in Training. I think I could get far in this. If I do come home, it will be for you, Mom. And maybe Annie, too._

_Just cart me off to sea in my coffin when I'm gone._

See, Annie? I wrote this way back when. I still loved you then, too. I miss you so much. I'm happy you don't have to be here with me. Stay safe, please. Mags respects you, and loves us so much. The rebellion will be soon, so maybe I'll come home, or at least see you soon. This is all about Katniss, you know. She'll be the one to save us. I'll be able to hold you, love you, be happy, everything, so very soon. Mags will get this back to you if she can, I know she will. I know this is short, but this is really all I had to say to you: I love you. I miss you. And I will be back soon. Hold on.

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My name is Doctor Nilam. I am taking care of you, Finnick. You're mind is unstable at the moment. The Mockingjay Movement is commencing. I am now about to write the rest in your point of view, Finnick. It is part of your acceptance treatment. Here we go.

I was rescued from the horrible Capitol Arena by District 13 and the Rebels. I was brought to the unknown District after District 12 was destroyed, with The Mockingjay Katniss Everdeen and District 3 tribute Beetee, who is now in intelligence. My name is Finnick Odair. Ever since the failed Hunger Games, I have woken up screaming for Anne Cresta. It has been more than a month. I have not seen her. I will not see her until I am better. I have seen no one. I, like Katniss Everdeen, have been under close survaleince. I cannot speak without relapsing. But I am getting better, and once I do, I will be able to see my Annie again.

Finnick Odair, if you want to see your love again, you will do what we say.


	8. Glimmer

**OK! Glimmer time. Thanks to glb-03 for reviewing every chapter so far! Everyone keep up the reviews, and I'll keep on posting! I actually thought there had to be some thought behind Glimmer, so I made this. yay. Also, my other story, The Pied Piper, is almost finished, so it would be awesome if that got some reviews too! It's really long, I'm writing the 13th chapter currently. And after that, I'm writing another multi-chap, so I need to know which people would like better- A Finnick fic, or a post CF Peeta fic! Which ever one is first the other is after it, so ya. Read, review, and enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Oh, Glimmer. You own everything, but enough brains to run away from tracker jackers. Well, good thing I don't own you, or the Hunger Games. :P**

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GLIMMER-DISTRICT 1**

Life is…complicated. I had it all. I was the prettiest (still am, even in the Capitol) the most desirable…the most skilled. When I volunteered I had a purpose. Everyone thinks I'm the little itty bitty District one girl, with her platinum blond hair and her dazzling, sexy green eyes. Do you know how many fans I have here? I'm famous. Hey, that's what I wanted. I didn't push that girl down for nothing. I can win this. Marvel, he cries in his sleep he's so afraid. What a baby. At least he's decent looking…I guess. Even the 12 boy is hotter than he is, and that's saying something if they're from 12.

God everyone is so stupid. I'm pulling a Johanna Mason here (it's different, though. I'm _much_ sexier). The pretty little dunce that'll get murdered after she gets the shelter from the big, scary District 2 boy Cato. I'm soo afraid. Yeah right. I've got everyone fooled. Once it gets down to me, Cato, and Clove, I'm guessing, I'll poison them when they eat. It'll be easy. The Gamemakers are so stupid, not even guessing that I have a hidden vial inside my heart locket. And _I'm_ the dunce. I'll be known as the prettiest, smartest, and most conniving victor of all time. Ha. I'll be a Finnick Odair, you know, how famous and absolutely _gorgeous_ he is. I so want to meet him. That would be interesting and amazing, having the two most attractive victors as lovers. I'm coming for you, Finnick! Ahh.

But, I guess I shall humor my mentor with this letter for funeral plans, as if I'll need them. Well, if I do die, it'll be in second or third place, so I shall be honored in front of the Justice Building, with a pure white coffin with pink trails. _Every single citizen_ has to be there. It will be mandatory. And inside my coffin, over my body, every single person in the District will place their best piece of jewelry. It's my favorite thing! And…make sure the Capitol does the nice, ever-lasting stuff on my body, so I'm beautiful forever. But, of course, this is the funeral I plan for myself when I die old. I'll never look old, though. I'll live in the Capitol, but be buried in District one. It's my home, is it not?

My outfits have been absolutely stunning. Of course, you've seen the Chariot Rides. You must be so proud of your little girl, the first person out there, who outshined everyone…except for those blasted twelves. They forgot about me, you know, because I was first, and they were last. It didn't make me happy. Oh, I cannot wait until I get to kill that girl. She has no right to be pretty. No right to outshine me.

No one outshines Glimmer, the prettiest girl in Panem.


	9. Johanna

**OK so not updating daily anymore, but i still got it out! This is probably my favorite, because i love johanna and her attitude. I hope i captured her sarcasm and irony well enough! Soo thanks to those who did review, and maybe people dont have enough time, but review! haha. So...yeah. enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own johanna, or district 7...or anything. This is tedious. I don't own the Hunger Games.**

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JOHANNA-DISTRICT 7**

Oh, I've got them all fooled. They're all so stupid.

They're going to die.

Hey, I'm…small. Kind of. Don't you dare say it to my face. I don't like being called short. It's not nice. But hey, when have _I_ ever been nice? Heh. But, I'm not a Career. I don't look strong. Or smart. Or skilled. I am not a threat in any of the simplest ways. Those morons.

Number one rule: suspect everyone as a threat. Number two rule: keep your eye on every single person. Number three rule: never share your rules so you can kill them all.

I've been crying a lot lately. It makes my eyes hurt. And red. And puffy. Ugh, it's so tiring, keeping up this charade. I mean, sure, it's a tactic, but sometimes I just wanna come out and wave my arms, saying "I can swing an axe better than all of you, feel free to let your neck make contact with it!" But sadly, no.

Let's see. Hide. I just _have_ to do that. Then, in the final eight, apparently I should just wait it out and attack people who just unfortunately come my way, but not Careers. Because I won't be _ready_ to show my worth yet. Then final four, go ballistic and kill. Stupid mentor. What does she know? She just stuck with this guy and then killed him in the final two. I mean _really_. Who trusts people all the way to the final two? Idiots, that's who.

When I come home, I'm gonna give you a big fat "I told you so". And a hug. I can win this…I'm clever enough. Everyone else just has _Kill! Kill! Oh, you died. Wah. Kill! Kill! Death._" going through their mind. How simple can you get? Here in the Capitol, you got the slow, the ridiculously brave, the streetwalkers, the homicidal, the weaklings, the showy and sparkly…and me. Of course. I don't fit in here, either. Figures, doesn't it?

I guess, if there _is_ in fact another smart person in this weirdo place, and I don't come home, bury me…alone. With only the family. And maybe a couple of friends. I don't want everyone to see me…humiliated. No, that's not the right word. Defeated. With vines and a pure lumber coffin, decorated with leaves and moss around…oh yes. The forest would be nice. But, heck, bury me wherever, as long as it's not in the town and not in a landfill. I deserve some respect. Everyone does. And don't bury me in the regular cemetery, that freaks me out. And plus, little Rhea will think that _my_ ghost haunts that place now. You don't want that, she'll be awake at night for a year.

Well, I'm going to stuff my face for all its worth. If something good comes from being here, it's the bloody good food. Hey, I'll smuggle some hot chocolate from the train when I come home. And a muffin, blueberry, just for you. I'm off to make my eyes sweat again. You gotta win somehow, don't you?


	10. Crippled Foot Boy

**I like this one, because I always wanted to know more about the poor guy. Hope I did him justice. I'd really like to apologize for the REALLY late update, I took a break from writing after finishing my story The Pied Piper for a while. Soo my Peeta story will be up soon, writing that currently, but for the past half an hour I wrote this because i really needed to post a chapter. So...enjoy. And review please that would be awesome thanks.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games series, so yeah. Don't think I do.**

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CRIPPLED FOOT BOY- DISTRICT 10**

Life kind of sucks when you're reaped. It sucks about three times more when you're like me. Someone to be disgraced in the Hunger Games. Always needing help. Always there but never noticed. Never cared for in the world of the artificial. A cripple.

See, when I turned twelve, I knew automatically that if I was reaped, there would be nothing left of me. Zip. Zilch. No chance for the cripple. The Capitol will pity me, moon over and want to help me! The rest of them will laugh hysterically when they see me die. Ha, hahaha. I'm not laughing. You see me laughing? So stop.

I just hate it all! Sure I'll fight, I'll try. If it comes to a race, I'm dead. But I've known that for days. You know the hemp I got? Well, I found a rock, and started carving at meals. This is kind of morbid, I know, but…I made myself a gravestone. Not really a gravestone, more like a memorial. Does that make sense? It's a rock. Anyway, uh, I'll keep it in my pocket. It's mighty small, but you know I can carve that tiny. I wrapped and tied it with my hemp. Smells like home. My escort _hates_ it.

I was all about keeping a low profile. Hoping no one would notice me. Well, yay. It worked. All thanks to District Twelve. And my disgusted stylist who put me in a full body cow suit except for my head. Idiot. No one noticed me or my partner, who was furious that we never get enough credit for what we do, no training, no glory, blah blah blah. I didn't listen, I was routing on the opposite outcome. I was fine with not standing out all the time and not getting all the glamour…except for the dying part. That's not too cool. What the heck am I saying, it's horrible! Ugh, what is wrong with me?

No one even listened for my interview. Great. Absolutely fabulous. I even saw the girls (guys, too, it was weird) pulling out mirrors and nail filers from their bags and primping themselves while I spoke. The only people paying attention were Caesar and the camera people. Poor them.

District Twelve, again, stole the show. I was overjoyed. The Careers _hated_ them. They would be paying attention on killing them, and not choosing the easy pickings, the runts of the litter (A.K.A me). And the stupid star-crossed lover thing? Hilarious. And totally fake. You could see it in her eyes. But hey, anything to get the Capitol's eyes on them and off of their mirrors with me in the reflection.

So, I got a three in training. That kind of sucked. But I don't know how to use any weapons! Dad never let me get a real job out in the pens, I stayed and helped the tailor, oh ho! Anyone need stitches? I'll stitch your clothes right up, yeah I'm a threat!

But, you know, it was meant to be. Everything happens for a reason. And now I see justice coming on the brute who killed me, sticking his sword through my chest on the first day. She killed him. Out of mercy. I wonder if their star-crossed lover thing is real now. There is no faux love in her eyes anymore. But as the arrow entered his head, it was like a huge weight was lifted off of me. Off of all of us.

Thank you Katniss Everdeen, for avenging us. For avenging me.


	11. Landmine Boy

**All right! Here's another nameless...aww. I love writing these, though, because we only know of their actions, so I can build my own personalities for them. I really don't like this one though, its so angsty in my opinion. But tell me what you think! Thank you to everyone who has reviewed! So much! I'd like to say happy holidays to everyone, and I have a few more written up so I probably will post one tomorrow if I get reviews! Thanks a bunch and enjoy the chapter!**

**Disclaimer: I wish he could have lasted longer...if I owned the Hunger Games all the nameless people would have names and would have gotten more appreciation nd part...did they? No. I DON'T OWN The Hunger Games!**

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LANDMINE BOY-DISTRICT 3**

I knew I never had a chance. But she just made it all come too soon. Much too soon to die. Especially in the hands of him. Cato.

See, I'm smart. Or rather…was. I've been forced to watch the Hunger Games for years, everyone knows about the mines. I was just smart enough to realize that they're still there, and reactivate them for the Careers. It made me feel great, how I helped them. Handy I could work a knife too. I usually stayed and guarded the stuff. That didn't make me feel that great, but at least I new the pattern of the mines, and I could kill whoever came along. And I wouldn't be killed by the Careers.

How was I supposed to know it would backfire?

Granted, I made it pretty far. Farther then most District Three kids. It's stupid. District 2 is all mighty and strong and trains their whole life to either kill people or keep them in line. And if you don't stay in line, they kill you. Big surprise. In District 4, they work and haul fish and water and mass transport _fish_. And then they train their whole life to kill people. District Three? You come strolling in, expecting to find the same impressive strong guys and tough as nail girls. Nuh-uh. You come in, the fence all around the whole entire District you can see is electrified ten times higher than any other District. It's really not fair, how we're slaves to our own livelihoods. The geniuses go and fix up a design that will just _WOW_ the Capitol with another electricity thingy. The rest of the District? We work in factories, trying to build a hundred million of these things to _WOW_ the Capitol. Ends up, by the time we've mass produced our products, the Capitol wants something better. Guess who gets the stuff? Districts 1, 2, and 4. The favorites.

I pondered a lot about fairness my whole life and decided nothing in a Three's life is fair. Nothing. So it wasn't fair that my brilliance was brought to an end by some girl who mines coal. I'm better than her, right? Apparently not. I'm not better than her because my life, even in the Games, was about shining brighter than any star, no matter what it took. What it took was my life. I should have used the mines against the Careers, not with them. I spent my last days trying to impress the people I've wanted to kill, wanted to humiliate for so long. I guess that's where life gets me, the standard Three. Too much pride to admit we're through, too humble to admit we ever had a chance.

But when his beast hands snapped my neck in half, I almost wished that I was watching the pile so that I could have blown up with it instead. That I hadn't gone to investigate those fires.

That would have been nicer.


	12. Cashmere

**Merry Christmas! Well, to those who celebrate it. I know this is not how cashmere is, but this is how i just picture her. its a bit weird. Anyway I hope you enjoy, and review please!**

**Disclaimer: I own a cashmere sweater, but i do not own Cashmere. Therefore, I do not own the Hunger Games. That's a DON'T.**

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CASHMERE-DISTRICT 1**

Stupid Gloss. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Ugh!

_I_ was going to volunteer last year, but noo. _Gloss_ had to steal all the glory! Of course I wouldn't volunteer if he did! That would be stupid. Then we both couldn't be victors! It's our master plan. We've trained harder, faster, better than any other duo in District One! Well, if I think about it a lot, it wasn't all that stupid. I'm eighteen now. Gloss was eighteen last year, so I guess he would have had to volunteer last year so that I could volunteer this year so that we could both be awesome victors together.

Wow I'm kind of stupid. Of course he'd have to volunteer!

Well, he won, so now it's my turn. I knew he would win. Everyone did. That stupid little District 6 boy attacked him in the final two. A fatal move. Gloss just turned around and stabbed him. Good boy. Good Gloss. Winner. Victor. Just like me!

I can't wait for the Games. Last year's arena was so exciting! Gloss said he couldn't see at all with the dense forest, so he just used his senses. I have those too, if I need them.

Gloss had to go on the Victor's Tour without me. I _hated_ that! I wanted to go to the Capitol and have fun, let people know that I was his sister and I was going to win the next year in the glorious Games of Cashmere!

I love my name. It's so soft. Like the fabric. My favorite sweater is made out of cashmere. It's awesome. Gloss doesn't have a sweater made out of gloss, now does he?

I'm so much better. You'll see. You saw me strut up on that stage in my _brilliant_, dazzling dress and cashmere sweater, volunteering to win! And now, I am going to kill them all! It's so weird to say that. Hi, Mister, I'm going to kill you now. Have a good day! But here, I have to. Well, maybe not. I could hide. But when has anyone won the Hunger Games by hiding? Yeah that's right. Never.

So anyway, the train is approaching! I can see the mountains! Beyond those mountains is my life. My city! I can't wait to see my stylist. I'm going to make them dress my partner ridiculously. I hate him. Maybe a couch. That would be funny.

I'm going to outshine everyone here, and Gloss. I'm certainly prettier than Gloss. Hopefully I'm smarter to. Gloss'll know what to do if impossibly I do fail. Well, see you later, Daddy! Wish me luck!


	13. Cecilia

**What is the thirteenth chapter without one of the saddest chapters like...ever? I just wrote this and I'm sad. I feel awful that even I could think of this...not really. I mean, I've always been curious about this woman and felt sorry for her and her children. So maybe you'll be sad, maybe you won't. But either way, please review!**

**ALSO, on another note. Right after this I will be posting a new story. It will be called Life, quite simply. Thanks.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games or any of the characters associated inside the story.**

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CECILIA- DISTRICT 8**

I have to say, I really never thought this would happen. I'd survived the Hunger Games once, and I never wanted to go back to that place again. The place I thought I left behind years ago.

I ripped it out of my memories when I came back to District Eight. Horrible, dreadful, deadly District Eight. I shut down for a while. Winning was terrible. It was almost worse than being reaped for the Games. I didn't want the Capitol and their fake wonder for yet another winner. There had been more than fifty at the time, what was it that a less-than-average-looking teenage girl won yet another of their hellish Games? Nothing. It meant nothing.

I met you. It changed my life. The nightmares stopped. I was happy again. We got married, and neither of us had to work ever again in those factories that take so many lives. They took my sister's life away there. She dodged the fate of the Games that I took, we were both alive, adults, and happy with our lives for _once_, just once. I was rich. We were glad I was alive. She didn't have to worry about the Games for many years, until we had kids and revisited the horror again. But she insisted on working. We had fights often about the matter. I told her I could protect her, give her money, she could live with me, her boyfriend too. Then I would pay for their house. They could have kids and live a wonderful life until their first child turned twelve.

I hadn't been firm enough.

Those factories are death traps. I pulled you out of there as soon as I could. She was already sick when the accident happened. Eight women died in the small explosion. Machine malfunction. Murder. Eight deaths in District Eight. Irony, you say? No. Coincidence? No. Homicide? I would agree.

We had so many happy years together. I forgot about them, the killing spree that infected my life and my sanity. Every year you held my hand after my years of mentoring. The Reapings made me cry. The Games made me scream and writhe in bed at night. The victory tour made me drown in my own memories.

The pain made everything better, believe it our not. When I first held my little girl, our first child, all of life's problems went away. When she turned one and I was pregnant again, the weight crashed down hard when she laughed her little baby laugh at the kids in their costumes on their sparkly chariots. In eleven years she would be eligible for the Reaping, in line for death.

Their faces, their three darling faces are imprinted in the inside of my eyelids from the day I had to walk back up to that stage. You looked at me, and somehow you knew. Somehow you knew you were to be a single father, with twelve, eleven, and eight year old children in tow. They knew, too. They knew that they would no longer have a mother, that they would have to deal with the fear without someone who had dealt with it before and overcome the terror. That in order for Panem to survive, Mommy had to die.

So I want to, no, _need_ to say goodbye to my darlings. Goodbye Sylvia, my first born, my brunette baby who always had a sense of knowing when someone needed a hug, and needed someone there to cry on and be comforted. Goodbye Clydell. I will always be proud of you, even if you are still a baby boy. You and Daddy will run the house, help the girls, and you will have enough inheritance to never enter those dreaded factories. Goodbye Fi, my little girl who loved the smell of fresh baked cookies and kept her teddy bear since she was one and slept with it every night.

I love you all. Honey, keep them safe. Maybe, just maybe, this will work out and I can come back to hold you all in my arms. But you have to remember this. Please.

Tell Paylor to continue. She can do it without us. And give my kids a kiss for me. I miss you.


	14. Haymitch

**YES! HAPPY NEW YEARS! *Fireworks and cheers and those little blowy noise poppers that make noise* YAY! I say we celebrate with: (duh duh duh) the HAYMITCH chapter! YES! I love Haymitch. Like soo much. And a TON of people requested this guy, so this is for you, those people who requested that is way too many to count! This is truly a time for celebration and yays. So go have fun. Like what, 4 more hours until 2011? So, leave a review for the new year! *note: when is the chinese new year? my fanfiction resolution is to make sure to update on each holiday, even if i updated the day before.* So Yes, please enjoy my favorite dude.**

**Disclaimer: I didn't make up Haymitch. Suzanne Collins is a genius. Meh I do not own! Meh.**

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HAYMITCH-DISTRICT 12**

Run.

I did something bad. Something so terribly and dreadfully stupid that it could get you all killed, and me too. We're all going to die. Victor of the Second Quarter Quell, the infamous Haymitch Abernathy! Yeah!

Died in a freak fire of his new home. An explosion in the Hob. Drowned in some river that doesn't exist.

It's going to happen.

So run. Get Ma and Merit and _run_. Just go, and don't ever come back. In the forest, beyond the fence, anything! Anything that will get you away from me, because I've been so idiotically vacuous that it's a wonder District Twelve wasn't destroyed in all of my stupidity. Merit has to go with you, because she meant so much to me before that they will use her, use you, Ma, anyone closely associated to the dimwit that pissed off the Capitol. They'll kill you. Me? Damn don't worry about me, I was going to die long before all of this hullabaloo about a forcefield and a devilishly handsome sixteen-year-old that sealed the fate for everyone he loves…F**k.

I want to take that rock and murder it before it comes back to murder me. But it did come back. It didn't murder me. So how does that…aw shit just leave and never ever come back!

I'd rather them kill me than touch you. It would be faster that way, get me out of their stupid evil world that tortures people every year. But hell I know that'll never happen. So RUN! GO! Grab some boxers and shit and leave my life forever if you don't want to get the back of my hand and some blade of some sort…that'll kill you…I'm not making this better, am I?

Why the hell are you even reading this? Man after the first word you should have dropped it, grabbed your extra shirt and some apples and crap before you could have time to read that…I'm sorry.

I never meant this to happen. Hell I expected to be dead right now. So it sort of sucks that this is happening. One good thing! I'm going to die anyway, so I tasted wine and it is _good_. I can have all I want here! Man it is sweet!

Don't you dare telepathically give me that look. I've been sentenced to death, I can do whatever the ruddy hell I wanna! You're not the boss of me! Well, um…yeah you're not the boss of me! I'm the boss of you, so go and…live like a rat and…live! Yeah, live! Maybe in like ten years you can come back a big boy and live your life well, unlike hellish ole me. Heh. That's what…Maysilee said. Hellish ole me.

Aw, f**k. I think I hear the Peacekeepers coming. Better make this quick, before…I'll give this to my mentor so that you'll get it before it's too late. I hope. Well let's see, is he reliable? Nope. _That_ guy is a drunk!

Listen here, little brother. I love you. I always have. I've always taken care of you and Ma, fed us, protected us. So now it's time for me to make up for what I did to you on that screen. Make up for everything I've ever said. When I hit you, when Pa hit you and Ma, when that dog bit your toe and I laughed…everything. I'm making up for it now. It's your turn to be the man and beat the man. You've been the man in the house for a month. You can do this, brother.

Shit I think they're coming. Maybe not. I'm paranoid now, you know? I have a reason to be. Well, this is goodbye, lil' bro.

I won't be seeing you.

**HAPPY NEW YEAR AND STUFF!**


	15. Maysilee

**Heya. So, I was _really_ happy about the reviews on the Haymitch chapter! 7 reviews! yay. try to keep that up, 'kay? so I decided to follow it up with another favorite, closy related...you guessed it! MAYSILEE! Yay. Zelda12343, this is for your request. Only one to request Maysilee, but hey, I like the character. So...REVIEW! and request. i need an idea on who to do next...:P Also, I strongly encourage you to check out my other stories. I have a new Peeta story, a Harry Potter story, a finished HG story and a one-shot featuring Haymitch and the person I wrote about here today. So check that out. Uhh, I guess it's R&R&R now? read, review, and request?**

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE HUNGER GAMES. I JUST LOVE THE SERIES. PLEASE READ THE STORY NOW.**

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MAYSILEE-DISTRICT 12**

You know what? It's not fair. It never was.

It's not fair that they have to go in. They've been struggling for years, trying to keep their families fed and their selves alive. I know you tore at me not to go, but really, it's more fair that I go. Me, Maysilee Donner. Town girl, blond, rich merchant father with all the money I would need. We all needed to wake up from that. We needed to face the fact that the Hunger Games were just a horror the Seam kids had to face. I'm the only town kid in this group of four. The rest of them, they just stare off with anger and grief. They were expecting this. They've been expecting this for years. They were just unfortunate enough to be reaped for the Quarter Quell, with all of their tesserae and such. Me? And you? None. Nope. We had no tesserae whatsoever. Zero. Zilch. Why would we? We didn't need it. Wait…don't need it. Look, at me, I'm already talking about myself in the past tense. Oh, wait, I didn't mean it like that!

Of course this doesn't mean I'm not going to try. I kind of enjoy living, thanks. I really do hope I have a sliver of a chance. I'm smart, right? I hope I am pretty. Everyone in Twelve thought I was, you too, but what the Capitol think of my fair skin and light wavy hair that I brush constantly? Well, I mean I _have_ to brush it, it'll get messy and knotted if I don't. But…maybe I should stop worrying about that. What about all of the Careers? How do we have a chance against them? Sometimes they're dense and bloodthirsty, and sometimes they're cunning and bloodthirsty. Either way their always pretty bloodthirsty.

Haymitch, I think that's his name, just stares out the window and doesn't speak. What does he expect to do, give all the tributes the silent treatment and they'll all keel over under the wrath of his scowl? He's just another Seam kid, bent on revenge against the Capitol with the pain of all the deaths he's felt behind the hilt of his sword. Or those daggers he calls eyes. He's going to get killed with that kind of thinking. We should just bury all of our prejudices and try to come out on top. And _alive_. Right? Or…maybe he has the right kind of thinking, and I'll get _myself_ killed. Hmm…I try not to think that way. Logical or rebellious? It was like asking if you wanted to jump off a cliff or stay on top. It depended what the situation was. Were you being chased by rabid wolves, or a bunny?

The food is good on the train. I mean, better than at home. The others dig in and stuff their faces like they've never seen bread, except for Haymitch. He sits there and picks at his food, like he won't give them the satisfaction of making him happy and content with the amount of food. Of course. It was _Haymitch_, after all. Rebel boy. As far as I was concerned, he could boycott the Capitol in general with signs and the whole deal, but the outcome was the same.

We were in the Hunger Games. We were going to die.

I hope to come out alive. I mean, everyone does. We watched the reapings, though, and some girl from Six seems like she's already given up. Another tried to stab himself. I think he was from Nine. The Peacekeepers tackled him and took him away. What was the point? We had no control of our lives, let alone our deaths. He had no chance of that knife entering his body. He had to face it. We died their way, if at all. Which brings me to the point that we should try to _win_, right? Living was good. Definitely. I can't read Haymitch. I don't know whether he wants to die or live. Win or lose.

I feel like the end is soon. Maybe not for me, but for at least three of us Twelve kids. How did we end up in Twelve? Was it that they picked a bunch of people and decided they had to have awful lives? I doubt it. And I knew we rebelled and all that, but was the Hunger Games necessary? We get it, we're scared, you're all powerful! Stop murdering kids! It's not fair! Not fair at all!

But life isn't fair. It never was.


	16. Wiress

**Greetings! okay, done with that. I'm sorry it's been soo long I've had soo much writers block it is not even funny. Thanks for requesting you people! This chapter is for alicemaybrandonjones and thenewkait. Next shall be BEETEE (gasp! yay!) and I shall try to do Annie Cresta. That will be hard, and I feel like I need to do her justice. But I have an idea for her. So request! It will be done! And just for the record, this is before wiress was kinda loco and was all like dropping sentences and "tick tock". this is before her Games. And for the record again, when you request I will not do any nameless tributes that we didn't see AT ALL. Like, the d4 boy from 74th Games. Or the D9 girl, because, whoop-di-do, we know nothing about them. Also, I'll be updating my Peeta story in a few days. Bear with me. THANKS! Now look below. And tell your friends. :P**

**DISCLAIMER: Nope. *but-* NOPE. *But don't you* I DO NOT OWN THE HUNGER GAMES!**

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WIRESS-DISTRICT 3**

The trail will be lacy and white to match the early snow of District Three that flutters down and makes even the factories seem harmless and old, if it weren't for the smokestacks rising and making the sky gray with depression. The seats will be a pearly gray to represent my life. The steps will be white with red trimming to remind you not to cry. I will not be sleeping. You're crying will not wake me from the eternal slumber that they thrust me into involuntarily. Because…you know why?

I will be dead.

You will dress me in a white dress that flatters me. My hair will be done out of my face, and for the first time in my life, correction, _your_ life it will not be greased with the sweat and oil from leaning over my work. It will be brushed and soft and beautiful. Something I never believed I was.

The closest will be there. The brothers and sisters of mothers and fathers of friends and acquaintances of mine. Anyone who knew me, appreciated me. Will miss me.

Of course you will be there. Friends from my year, from the factory, even the little girl at the cloth shop that comforts me when I get frustrated. People think I'm a little crazy. I'm only crazy when I can't figure things out. If you were me, you'd understand. But no one will have to deal with me getting frustrated again. I'll be happy. Perhaps in a world where problems fixed themselves, and machines worked with no maintenance.

Where no children died.

Beetee will be there. I…like Beetee. He won a couple years ago. He's only a bit older than me. Too bad one of his first tributes he's mentoring will die. That'll be sad. I still want him to come. Know that I thank him, and even though he didn't have much advice, I knew he wanted us to win, to go home. Even if it was by accident, like the Careers all fell on deadly bushes. Even if he wanted us to win just so he didn't have to live the horror over again.

Everyone will be able to see me. Open casket. With an ivory coffin. I like the color white. It is so innocent. The color of…snow.

Snow is a blessing. It is beautiful and cold and creates a film over the ground that even hides the trash and leaks on the ground. It makes traveling hard but that's okay, because you get to play in it. It feels good against your skin and it's fun to catch on your tongue. It gets you out of work and school and makes the people happy.

Snow is also a curse. It smells of roses and poison and it captures children every year in its trap of death. It smiles and likes the power it holds over the warmth of the Districts with its iciness. The cold grasp is the leader of the cold unfeeling citizens that hold the fire as a slave. It doesn't care and is the reason I will be lying in the snow-white casket.

He is the man who will kill me.

The red trimming is for him. To remember how I died, under the grip of those red and white roses that don his midnight tuxedo as he addresses the slaves of the Capitol. But everything else will be white, the beautiful white. Not the ugly white that people say is the same. The early now will fall, drifting the shoulders of those in the aisle. It'll be like a wedding, with a priest and those pretty things that the bride and groom kiss each other under. Except everyone will be wearing black.

Black is a horrible color.

But it will show my appreciation for the greater and lesser things. That I can let black into my life. I just want to…I want to think…it will be white, not black.

I wish I could see you again. I say farewell. And I think…you should too.

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**I felt like i wasn't doing any actual funeral letters. Tell me if you like these (or like rue's, see chap 1) or more like...other (see haymitch, chap 14 or whatever.) thanks!**


	17. Beetee

**SORRY! Ok, got that out of my system. So again its been a long time, and I apologize. Essays and stuff are to blame. But it is here now, do not worry! Let me just put it out there that I may not be updating frequently because I'm writing like three OTHER stories too, so this isn't as much of a priority. BUT...i shall not stop! I will never ever ever ever stop this...until i'm done, that is. So, if you review, that makes it a thousand times better! And, check out my other stories that are making my writing schedule so hectic. One's a HG story called LIFE, and the other is a Harry Potter story called Little Secrets. Reviews for those and THIS little story right here are greatly appreciated! Now, after my rambling...THE CHAPTER!**

**Disclaimer: I love Beetee. I love The Hunger Games. I love pie. But do I own any of those? OF COURSE NOT!**

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BEETEE-DISTRICT 3**

I shouldn't be here. No, really. It doesn't make any sense. I did it all out. I can prove it.

Technically, there were 9,863 slips in that bowl. The bowl itself, probably something like a diameter of five feet or so, presumably four feet tall. I had my name in there 20-odd times. So there were 9,843 slips left. With the length of my escort's arm and all the other slips inside his short reach, and since he dropped each slip eight times before pulling one out, it couldn't have been me. It's not logical. I can't figure it out, no matter how much paper I waste writing it out. It's just…not right.

Luck doesn't exist. Odds are false. Chance is just a word for lazy people who don't want to work the math down to a point. It's just not how it goes. It's just not realistic.

But my name was pulled from that bowl. I am in the Capitol with all of these weirdoes. But it's so spectacular. I wish I could go around and take measurements on all the skyscrapers and arches but no. I've have to train and swing dangerous objects around that I can't even pick up, let alone stab anyone but myself with it. How am I supposed to kill people with a scimitar I nearly dropped on my foot? Will them to stab themselves with it? Oh yeah. Thank you for killing yourself. I mean, maybe _one_ person would do that. And with my "luck", it'll be me.

It's no different here than in Three, socially. I mean, in Three everyone worked for what they ate and where they slept and if they'd see their family again. Here people threaten to kill if they don't get their filet mignon cooked to a _precise_ degree and tenderness. It's not right. I really don't think I have a chance in these Games. The Careers this year are brutal. I couldn't make the knife hit the dummy, and one pushed me down and tried to throw a knife at _me_. I shouldn't be here. This is no place for me.

I guess even if I do go home I wouldn't really like it. Three is so horrible that I don't even want to go back. I think I'd rather die…or maybe not. I mean, there is going back to the hell of a life I live, and then there's being dead. No one knows what happens when you're dead, well because, you're _dead_. There's the fear of never knowing what would happen when you died, if it was worth dying, if there really was a light at the end of the tunnel. That's why there's the Hunger Games. To make little kids realize that fear when it is too late to do anything about it. To make the Districts fear death and except their miserable lives in Panem if it meant they wouldn't have to face that fear that everyone has. Of death. You can't say you're not afraid of death, because if you weren't you'd be laughing in the face of it and not fighting for your life to outmaneuver the Reaper. The tributes fight for their lives because no one wants to lose them, because it has never been explored before. Everyone everywhere will do anything to keep his or her lives.

And sadly, I am one of those people.

If I died I guess I would just be cremated. No more Beetee to worry about. Everyone would go back to his or her separate little lives, try to make it through for another year until another family member is Reaped. I wouldn't bother anyone with a funeral. Maybe someone would keep my ashes, if they cared enough.

But maybe I could make it out and find a way to stop all the death, maybe make everyone realize that the Capitol is the fear, the cause of the grief and the paranoia. That the reason they are afraid of death is because the Capitol deems it something to be afraid of! Maybe I could make a difference. If I took a hold of that fear deep inside me, and willed myself to win, making twenty-three others face what I would not.

But I guess that's life. Oh, and mailman? Don't bother giving this to my family. Seriously. They have enough to worry about without me.


	18. Annie

**Wow. Been a long time, hasn't it? It is SO hard to write nowadays. Did I just say nowadays? I _am_ tired. I've been working hard on this one here, because I just didn't know how to write it! But now it is done, and I am updating. A So keep requesting! Sorry I haven't been updating, but I've been mobbed with work, play stuff, and life. I hope to update my other stories today or in the next few days. So...REVIEW! And I shall write. Or at least try to :P oh, and Happy Groundhog Day! **

**Disclaimer: Uhh...I've run out of witty disclaimers. So...let's do Pig Latin again, 'cause that's just fun. Iway oday otnay ownway ethay ungerHay amesGay, orway Annieway estaCray. **

**Bonus points to anyone who translates that in a review. JK. Oh, yeah! So ATTENTION! to anyone and everyone who loves Beetee and or loved my Beetee one-shot. There is an outstanding story called Volts by Heart the Squid about Beetee and his life. Probably the one and only story about Beetee, but it also happens to be insanely good. So check it out. **

**ONTO THE STORY!**

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ANNIE-DISTRICT 4**

Hi, Finnick. How was your day today? Well, I'm not even sure if you had a day today, but I have to think that you did, because if you did I can believe that you see me and know I write you letters. And maybe you pretend to write me letters too and want to hold me every waking moment you know you are gone from this world. If you don't, and your spirit is really gone, I don't know what I would do. I can't lose him, either. I'd lose myself. I'm already slipping. The only thing that keeps me in check with the world are his eyes and his little, tender hands. Just like…just like yours.

It's ironic, isn't it? I lost my Finnick, but I gained a Finn. One half of a you. But the feeling, the feeling of being a mommy, is almost like being in love.

Almost. I said almost.

He's a mini you, but that just makes the pain worse sometimes. When he comes upon me while I'm having an episode, and he puts his little arms around me and cries with me, he makes it so much better, but so much worse. He doesn't know why I cry, but he cries too, because he doesn't want his Mommy to cry. Finn, sweet little Finn, doesn't know that he'll never have a father, doesn't know of our past and the horrors that both of us have faced. He does not know that when we had a childhood, it was not filled with cakes and candies and tumbling on the beach with the other children. We grew up holding knives instead of rattlers, and dodging arrows instead of jumping rope. All for those sadistic Games.

I refuse to let Finn call something a game. Sport, activity, fun time, whatever. Just not a game. One day he asked me why, and I collapsed into an episode. Finn screamed and had to get the neighbor to come over, but of course he did nothing but console Finn and wait it out. Because you were the only one who could ever stop the voices.

It was the worst day in five years, seeing him scream like that.

The voices have returned, intruded into my head again. I cry in my bed every night, but of course you know that. I've described it to you before. The pain of knowing that you are _gone_, that everyone is _gone_. I haven't seen anyone from the years before in a very long time, but I haven't forgotten. Katniss, the Mockingjay. The Girl on Fire, whose flames burned the Capitol to the ground. Peeta, the boy with the soothing voice who loved her so, his love almost as strong as yours. He was the one who told me. And the way he spoke, I could have almost taken it calmly and grieve silently, almost could have taken his comfort and continued to live.

Almost. I said almost.

At your funeral, I held baby Finn and cried. I refused to say any words, and after the service I handed Finn to Katniss and went up to your coffin alone. It was empty. They never found your body. Instead the District Four made coffin was filled with your possessions, and some of my own. Because when you died, you took some of me with you. It took all of everyone's strength to keep you from taking all of me. I needed to stay alive, for Finn's sake. But it wasn't enough.

Because the truth is, he'll never replace you.

I heard you whisper to me last night. Soothing and calming me as I sobbed, trying to block out the voices. And it took me a very long while to discover that it was Finn whispering to me and holding me, not you. My Finn was not crying with me anymore. He was comforting me, caressing me just like you did before. I looked up into his beautiful little eyes, and he told me, "There's no need to cry, Mommy. Daddy's here."

And I almost believed him.

He will never be subject to the Hunger Games. My Finn will never know the pain we know. He will never feel the burn of losing someone you love. But he told me something the next day, far too wise for a five-year-old. He told me that you can make the pain go away if you let it. That it was your own decision whether to hang on, or let go. And I know what I have to do. It will either destroy me or set me free, and if it sets me free, I will be letting go of you. And that is something I never want to do.

Never.

I burn this letter today because I know that I have to let go. I burn all of my letters today because I know that you will never hold them, but you will read them. And I keep the ashes in an urn because I know I will never truly let go. But as I watch the flames lick the pages that were my lifeline to the dead, I know that I've let go. I know I've finally said goodbye.


	19. Gloss

**Look at me, posting another chapter! I'm so proud of myself. So I'd like to thank all of you for your reviews, and note that reviews make authors happy. Seriously. I read Heart the Squid's review, and then wrote two more chapters immediately after. See? Progress! Yay! When I wrote Cashmere's one-shot, I was in a hurry and I hadn't gotten up to the good chapters yet. But I wrote (I think) a good chapter, 'cause I didn't wanna mess up the pattern that's been goin' on. :P Anyway, enjoy. REVIEWS are appreciated. Hint hint, cough cough. This is still a short chap, though. I apologize. Longer than some of the earlier ones, tho...Oh. And since you guys seem to like this story, why don't you go check out some of my other ones. Actually, there's only two at the moment, but still. READ, REQUEST, AND REVIEW!**

**Disclaimer: I'm done with these. No one even reads them, anyway. I'm ignoring you. Oh, never mind, I'll do it. Meh. I don't own the Hunger Games, blah, blah, blah.**

**P.S. Kudos to Heart the Squid who actually cared to translate the Pig Latin. **

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GLOSS-DISTRICT 1**

The thing is, I don't regret it. I don't regret slitting her throat open in front of the Girl On Fire. The woman was insane, and she shouldn't have even won her first Games, she was so stupid. Even her name was stupid, something like Wire? And people in the lower Districts make fun of _our_ names. God, they're disgraceful. No, I didn't regret killing her. Tick tock, tick tock! Off of her rocker, she was. The look on her injured District Partner's face…comical. The old man thought he could kill me for killing her? I'm gone, but I have a message for him, buddy. It's the Hunger Games. I will never regret killing that woman. She was one out of many. Even when Katniss Everdeen's arrow entered by skull, I never regretted a kill.

I don't regret stabbing that boy from Eleven. He was my first kill of the Games. That one knife would lead me on a long road of success. I one my Games with that knife. He was just the first causality. He had to die, for me to live. That's the way the Hunger Games work. And the death of that boy gave me the drive to kill all the others, to win. To live, and to see my sister and family again. He was just a face without a name, the first step on a stair. I don't regret killing him. It had to be done.

I don't regret beheading my District Partner in the Final Two. She was getting ridiculous, gone insane and trying to stab me left and right. What did it matter that she looked like Cashmere? What did it matter that for one moment, just one moment, I thought that it was my own sister's head flying away from her body? I was going to be seeing my real sister soon. I had to kill her. Miracle, was her name. It was a miracle I could have killed her. But I don't regret it. She wasn't my sister. She wasn't my friend. She had to die. Even as her head rolled against my foot, spurting blood as her lifeless eyes stared up at me, I didn't regret it. I don't rue anything.

I will never regret sending Cashmere into the Hunger Games. Yes, she could have died. I could have seen her head roll off of her body just like Miracle's, but I didn't. She survived. My little sister was trooper, a survivor. There was no way I could have lost her. It was just impossible. She came out damaged. She wasn't the same Cashmere, with a face like the fabric. Soft, calm. The Cashmere that came out of the arena wasn't the same. Even now she looks around sometimes in paranoia, thinking that someone is just around the corner. The Careers betrayed her. Of course she would be paranoid after her Victory. But Cashmere returns to her cool self immediately, leading both of us through to more and more success in our lives. No, I don't regret sending her into the Games. She is my rock at the worst of times. Even when I spot my sister rocking in the corner of her room at night, I don't regret her winning.

I cannot regret. That is the way I was brought up, the way I was raised. Act first, grieve later. I always skipped the grieving part. There was never enough time. I was always acting. I didn't even rue anything when the arrow entered my skull. My dying wish was for Cashmere to win, to become a legend, but as I fell to the ground I saw the axe enter her chest, and that broke me. I was already gone, but I realized everything. My life literally flashed before my eyes, showing me what I did wrong, but then it was gone.

It's funny that the one thing I regret is that I never regretted anything. Except for the fact that it's not funny at all.


	20. Seeder

**Hey, I'm back! But not for long...sad face. This next week is going to be INSANE, so don't expect anything for at least another week. I have dress rehearsals and performances for my play every day for the next eight days so yeah, not a ton of time to write with everyday life coming into the equation too. But onto the task at hand. I would like to thank the reviewers and say keep it up because it makes me happy and gets me to write. ALSO, requesting is now needed. I have no idea who to write next, because I haven't gotten any inspiration. There's not a lot of people left...I think we'd be lucky to fit ten more in...but anyway it would be awesome if you told me who you wanna read about. This is probably my favorite chapter. I was never a huge fan of Seeder and now I like her a lot more from reading various stories with ehr in them and writing this...so tell me what you think. READ. REVIEW. REQUEST!**

**Disclaimer: semaG regnuH eht nwo ton od I. (Backwards. I ran out of ideas...)**

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SEEDER- DISTRICT 11**

After a while, it starts to hurt.

I look at all the other Victors, turned to drink or morphine, spiraling into a sinking depression. I am Seeder. The one Victor that for one reason or another is always happy, always brings up the mood. The cheery one, the one person that, with a hug and a smile, a song while walking down the hall, can bring someone just a bit farther out of that ditch of horror.

But after a while, it starts to hurt. Very badly.

There are the days I shift along, watching nothing but the ground in front of me and listening to what other people happen to be saying. Speaking no words and showing no emotion. This is my depression. This is my Victory. And as soon as someone asks, "Seeder?" I turn back on the smile. Because someone has to do it. Someone has to act like everything is all right, no matter how much of a dirty lie it all is.

There are the days when I am frozen, sitting down and doing nothing at all for hours at a time but thinking. Pondering about life, and what it means after you have gained your Victory. This is my day. This is the time I spend when the smile is off, and the laughing has gone to sleep. And as soon as Chaff or my sister knocks on the door, I start to whistle a happy tune and spring up from my slouched position with perfect posture and oozing optimism. Someone has to do it. Someone has to keep up the act, to hold people when they cry, to bring them out of their drunken stupor. Someone has to be there for every single other person. And fate decided it had to be me. I hold the weight of everyone's happiness while they go off and grieve and mourn, rotting their joy down to the shriveling core.

And after a while, it starts to hurt. It starts to become too heavy to bear.

There are the days when I am spasmodic, even for an aging woman. When I have a cup of coffee in hand at all times, skipping down the hall and singing too loudly to be enjoyable. Dragging the dreary down the hall with a smile, a smile that is stuck there from habit. A smile I don't mean, but my energy keeps me going. And trust me, it is not the same as a real smile. It's a hoax, something to keep everybody believing for those small hours I need to cry before I can perk up again for real, and shoulder the weight again. And no one notices. No one notices that some days I am down, or frozen, or strained. No one notices when Seeder is staring at her soup at suppertime, painful images flashing violently through her head. No one notices because they need my smiles, my laughs, my hugs. They need them to survive, and they don't notice that sometimes, I need them too.

After a while, it starts to hurt. The ignorance starts to ache.

It is a responsibility I have to take. Something only I can do, at least until I am gone. Only I can get Chaff to talk late at night about the emotional turmoil that comes from his disability so that he won't get drunk and get himself hurt. Only I can give warm smiles in Mags' direction when her own weight starts to beat her to the ground. And when I'm gone, someone will have to replace me. And even when I gave her my hugs the other day, smiled my smile, I don't think Katniss could do it. She has enough on her back, enough pain to bear. The truth is that I'm the only one who can do what I do and not crack under more than thirty years of it. No one will be able to take my place when I'm dead. And trust me, even after years of not believing it to be true, it will happen very soon. It will very possibly be tomorrow.

I won't get a funeral. If all goes well, I will never get a funeral. Katniss' and Peeta's genuine smiles cured me for the rest of my life, approximately a couple days. I let go of my dead weight dragging onto me, and for the first time in a while, I was really happy. I spent my last few days with my friends, not needing to be faking the comforting smile. Because I knew how they felt, and I didn't want anyone to feel that way. I could be happy and enjoy my life now. Because I was ready. I was ready to die.

After a while, everything starts to hurt. And after a while, the pain ebbs away. Trust me. It really does.


	21. Titus

**Oh my Gosh! I'm back!**

**Let me apologize. You people know all the regular reasons why I didn't update, and for that I am sorry. I was busy with school, had vacation, and had writers block times a thousand. I've been writing a lot for non-Fanfiction stories, too. But I'm here now with a somewhat weird chapter. I'll let you get on with it after the following rant.**

**Ok, so I posted a new chapter for the story I personally love the most of mine, called Life. It's a Peeta fic, I've mentioned it before. But I posted a long chappie a while ago that I worked on and then...no reviews. Like, none. OK. got my rant out. I hope that I get some reviews here, because I'm getting back on track now. So yeah! Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own. No way. Hunger Games is not mine. **

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TITUS-DISTRICT 6**

Crazy.

That's what my District Partner called me today, Sarah. Crazy. I don't think I'm crazy. They're all just wrong. Even my own mother called me crazy back home. I think she was glad to be rid of me. The only person who doesn't think I'm insane is you, Sarah.

Crazy. Huh. What a title for Titus.

Caesar Flickerman didn't call me crazy, but I could see it in his eyes. When I told him that I had a secret way to survive he got excited. They all got excited. Scared, even. But then I started laughing, and they got all nervous. Even more scared. Frightened. Terrified. I don't know why they did, Sarah. It was funny. My plan was funny, or at least I thought so. It was funny because no one else thought of it. No one had been stupid enough to try it. No, no one had been _smart_ enough to try it. I'm smart, Sarah. Not crazy. Smart. I'm going to win and come home to you, Sarah, because I'm so smart.

Not crazy. Smart people like me aren't crazy.

When the arena came up around me everyone was scared. I wasn't scared. I knew that if I got a sword or a knife or something marvelously pointy like that I would win. I just would. Those Gamemakers wouldn't know what was happening until I had already won. I'm clever like that, Sarah. I'm fast. Everyone is scared of me, even the Careers. It's nice that there aren't any real Careers this year. I can win, I know I can. I know I can, Sarah! I…I sound like that story my mother used to tell me at bedtime. I forget what it's called, though. Something motivational. Mother liked to tell it to me so that I could grow up to be someone special, I think. That is until she decided she didn't like me anymore. That I wasn't normal. I think I'm pretty normal, don't you, Sarah? And what is normal? Nothing's normal here in the arena. Nothing's normal back in Six. Nothing's normal in Panem, isn't that right, Sarah?

I'm not normal. But not being normal doesn't mean that I'm crazy.

I didn't grab a backpack. Just a sword. My first kill was on the third day. I was hungry. Very, very, hungry, Sarah. Even back in District Six I didn't get this hungry. I didn't go three days without eating. So I stuck my blade through that guy's back. The cannon sounded very loud. I never liked loud noises, but I didn't care. I dragged the boy back to my camp and started a fire, with my boot on the boy's chest. His eyes were open and shined as the fire wavered. My stomach growled.

I knew it was wrong, Sarah. I knew it was wrong and immoral and completely against the rules. But I didn't anyway. I was hungry. It wasn't written anywhere that I couldn't do it. So I cut off his leg. The boy's leg that was still pumping blood. I stuck the leg in the fire.

And I ate it.

I ate the next leg and cooked the arms for later. And after that I ran around looking for more because I was still hungry and I _liked_ it. I like the taste of human flesh and I wanted more, Sarah. No one can blame me for wanting food. Though my second kill was a girl, and she had a backpack full of food. I didn't take it, Sarah. I left the food there to rot and I cooked the girl. It felt bad and horribly inhuman. It felt wrong, and yet it felt _so right_.

Maybe I am a little crazy, Sarah.

All I wanted now was to go to you, Sarah. That's all I wanted. I kept killing and killing and eating and eating, but I wasn't winning. I felt like I was sinking lower and losing. Everything was backwards. If I was losing when I was winning, I had to lose to win. But I kept eating the tributes that ran into my sword because I just couldn't _help_ myself. I needed it. All I needed was that feeling and you, Sarah.

When the avalanche came I was almost relieved. I stood up from the fire and faced my oncoming death, dropping the human arm on the ground. In the front of that mass I saw you, Sarah, coming to me, reaching out for me. I was ready, too. As much as I wanted to stay I wanted to leave, too. And so I came home to you, Sarah, just as I promised I would when you died.

Crazy. The title for Titus. I was crazy. But being crazy doesn't matter when you're dead.


	22. Chaff

**Aw, look at me updating! I'm so organized...*cough cough NOT cough cough* OK. so this is the time in the story when we are ending the mere amount of tributes that we actually know about or SuCo cared to share with us from the book. So. I need you, yes I am saying this to all of YOU, to review. But. (I said BUT!) I need you to request who you want. There's not a whole lot left (and yes there is a reason I haven't done Katniss or Peeta yet) so tell me who you want to read about. I can just do the regualr people, or I could throw in some special ones for you too, non-tributes but very important to the story, you know. I'm pretty sure someone requested this guy, and thank you, Faithful Reviewer For Whom I Am Shameful Because I Cannot Remember Your Username. I like this one. So, hope you do too! **

**READ! REVIEW! REQUEST!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games, do da, do da...  
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CHAFF- DISTRICT 11**

Fingers.

The nightmares will haunt me until the day I die. Which, granted, could be very soon. But the last thing I want to do, the thing I will never get, is to have all ten fingers again. I never wanted some metal contraption attached to my arm. I wanted real fingers. I wanted real bones and nerves and I wanted to be able to be able to hold someone's hand in mine and drive the plow again.

I wanted a real hand.

But of course, they couldn't give me that. They tried to convince me that I'd be happier with fake fingers. But I didn't _want_ that. I wanted real skin on my real fingers and I wanted to see my lifeline on my palm even though no one gives a shit about those things because we're all going to die sooner or later. For me, it's sooner, I can bet. I didn't want to look down at my hand and realize with the largest and most painful pang of the century that it wasn't real every time. It would never be real. I would rather have no hand at all than a hand that made my heart and head hurt with every glance. But maybe I'm lying, a little.

It's funny how they can take away so much, yet give so little.

I can't look at the District One mentors, let alone their tributes. Ever. Because it's the pain of knowing that one of _them_ did this to me, and they don't even care. They never even apologized. Never gave the man with no left hand a second glance. Because they _forgot_. The tribute who did this to me died the day part of me did, and his mentor soon after. After more little District One kiddies won the Game of their life, while the rest of us grieved and suffered in silence. I had to mentor kids the year successive of mine, and I didn't talk to them. Almost at all. I was too deep in a depression. Of course, they died. The other old woman was a drunk, and wasn't much help. And then there was hand-less ole Chaff, who scraped his Victory with luck. Luck. Huh.

I had no luck.

Some kids called me Mad Ole Chaff. Some decided I was Chaff the Invalid. Some said I was just stupid because I wouldn't talk most of the time. They all died in the arena before they had a chance to tell their families they were wrong. I did give them advice, which they all ignored. I told them what to do, but yet I was 'Chaff the Invalid' in more ways than one I suppose, so they ignored it. They ignored everything, and every year they died. Just died and died and died. I began to give up, but then Seeder came. She was another Victor, but I never gave her much attention. She wasn't my mentor. But the year she and I mentored together, and tried to give the kids a chance, the boy made it to the Final Three.

And that was progress.

Seeder helped me out, helped me learn. I learned how to do things with one hand, how to treat people who were shocked, how to shake off the Capitol fru-fru's comments with so much as a laugh or a grunt. Seeder would stay and bring me out of a stupor when I drowned myself in alcohol. She'd cover for me when I got mad at the tributes for calling me names. Seeder helped. She helped more than anyone ever did, because I felt better. I didn't drink liquor as much. I didn't break down any more. She wasn't like my older sister. She wasn't like my mother. Seeder wasn't…anything. She was nice. She was there.

And that was enough.

I wanted real fingers. I wanted to hold someone's hands in _both_ of my hands. I wanted to feel the soil while holding the plow. I wanted to pick an apple and hold the basket at the same time. I wanted to brush my niece's hair back from her little face. I wanted fingers. Real, damn-straight fingers. But now I'm heading off to my death—again. I know I'm not coming out. I know that I am going to die without a left hand. But Seeder's here. My friends are here. Might as well have some fun, one more time.

I had no fingers.

But right now, I didn't care.


	23. Mags

**Yes. I_ wrote_ it! Heart the Squid, your request was greatly appreciated, but very hard to get into mind. Maybe because she's old...oh, Mags. Well, I'm home sick so I decided to write this up. It kind of wrote itself after I got the idea. I hope you all decide to follow suit and update your own stories, cause let me tell you I have been waiting for some of the stories I subscribe to for a while. Some authors are awesome and update frequently. Some are like me and update when they can. Some just don't. Whatever. Rant over. ENJOY THE CHAPTER! Woof or someone will probably be next. Look out for the next chapter. Oh, yes. And...REVIEW! (requesting is also greatly appreciated). **

**Disclaimer. Nope. Don't even ask. I'm not the genius that came up with the Hunger Games.**

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MAGS-DISTRICT 4**

I've lived a long life.

I've done many things. I was reaped for the Eleventh Hunger Games when I was a girl. That alone was a life experience all in its own. There were no Careers in District Four at the time. We were still getting over the Dark Days, and hadn't reached the realization the way District Two had. I was still getting over the Dark Days. My mother had died during that war.

I had been five.

I was sixteen when I was reaped. After a decade of this horror, Panem had finally started to come to its senses. Finally started to realize that this was never going to go away. Never. I won by luck. There was an ocean and fields in my arena. It was my element. I hid out by the beach with some knives and caught fish. The whole time I kept making fishhooks, stringing them on the braided string of reed I made, attaching the string to the branch I used as a pole. I made fish hooks out of anything I could find. Used my berries as bait. My father said that if there was one thing I was good at, it was fishing. I could survive, as long as there was fish.

I won slowly. The only food source was the fish in the whole arena. There were snakes in the tall grass. There were mutant mosquitoes that killed you in hours. Everyone starved. Everyone got sick and died. Except for me. I sat in the dark with only the dying embers of my fire to keep me warm when the last cannon sounded, the final boy to die of a mosquito bite. The trumpet was like a hammer on my ears, the congratulations short-lived. I was now District Four's second Victor. And I hated it.

However quick and violent a murderer's insanity is, a silent, haunting insanity is worse.

Eight years later, the 'Career' was a usual occurrence. District Four established its Career Training center, under the advice of the first Victor of District Four. I knew his name. I didn't like to speak it. He had been my mentor. I had hated the man. I sat on the sidelines in the Capitol as he urged the newly trained children to kill. I went along for the ride. I didn't say anything. Because in twenty years of death, I was the only Victor of all the Career districts that had not killed one person in their Games. I didn't want the children to kill. I didn't want the children to die. There seemed no way around it without one thing or the other happening. I was stuck in a District who encouraged the killing of children, more and more so over time. I thought that as the District gained more Victors over time, I would just be able to let them all coach the killers so that I wouldn't have to. The problem was, by the twentieth Hunger Games, there was only four Victors in District Four. I was the only girl. The first Victor and I were commissioned to mentor until the other two turned twenty years old.

The first Victor died.

Heart attack, I supposed. He had always been unhealthy. But the fact was that now I was a Career mentor alongside an eighteen year old who just got out of the arena. I had to tell children to kill or die. I had to tell them to become murderers.

I mentored seventy-two children over thirty-six years. On and off. Life and death. I had wanted to retire from mentoring altogether when District Four hit the twenty Victors mark. They wouldn't allow me to. And so I came up with the idea of defying them. Of defying the Capitol.

It was slow going. I was nearly seventy years old by the time we even established anything worthwhile and even close to progress. Every year I was called in to mentor was another meeting with the other mentors who wanted it all to stop.

I had lived to see every single Hunger Games showed on national television. I had lived to survive the Dark Days. I had lived to see the inauguration of two forced, evil Presidents of Panem. And yet I had never seen someone quite like Finnick Odair. He was Career in every way, a manipulative little boy that knew about his looks and used them to his advantage. He didn't want to be with the big eighteen year olds that would no doubt kill him. But he wanted to live. He came to me for advice. And for the first time, I really mentored a tribute.

And he lived.

Finnick was not arrogant. He was forced. He cared about me, his own grandmother-like mentor, but he also cared for Annie. He and I mentored the girl, and Finnick cared for her. I was worried about my health then, and Finnick had trouble dealing with Annie Cresta and me. I told him it was all right, that I would be fine. He focused on getting Annie out of that arena alive. I focused on planning the rebellion I had a feeling would never come.

I lived through my stroke. Finnick was torn apart, nearly insane when I collapsed. It killed him to rush me to the hospital, leaving his Annie. He was a mess. I was okay. I lived. I didn't know why. I had lived through everything this horrible world had thrown at me, and I knew why. I was meant for something. We were all meant for something. When the Mockingjay came into view, Haymitch and I worked hard. The rebellion was in place. People were acting.

And then we were all sentenced to death. Again.

I had lived to see Seventy-Five Hunger Games. I had lived my life trying to end it. I knew that that was what I was meant to do. I was meant to die, finally die after everything, for something I believed in. I wanted no funeral. I had lived too long, seen too many things for something so trivial. I just wanted a memory. I said goodbye to Finnick. I got ready. I was ready for it all to end. But no one told me that I would still be able to see the world in my death.

I lived a long life.

And let me tell you, however quick and painful death from a knife to the chest is, a slow and silent death is worse.


	24. Woof

**Another update! How long has it been? Whaaat? Only a few days? What is UP? Oh, I know. I wrote a one-shot. I'm going to post it, but I thought there should be another chapter for my favorite story. :) thanks for all your awesome reviews! They make me write faster, see? This is proof!**

**So, now, I'm going to do a little talking. Not really. I write some one-shots every month for a forum contest. It would be pretty awesome if you checked them out. I'm going to go post my fifth one now, but some reviews would be truly awesome. And now, the second old Victor chapter in a row. Yay! Oh! And Review. (capitalization needed, yes.) and Request! So, glb-03, without further delay: here's Woof.**

**Disclaimer: I don't know Woof or anything/anyone else Suzanne Collins owns. What kind of name is Woof, anyway? Oh, right, I explain it. Just...read the chapter.**

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**WOOF- DISTRICT 8**

Damn Hunger Games. I thought I had escaped all this back when I _won_ my Games. The Nineteenth Hunger Games. Some glorious title, eh? Yeah, yeah. There's nothing special about it. Nothing special about me. Hell, I was named after a dog. Young people now are named after flowers and bread and clothes. Me? I was named after my daddy's dog. What a way to start a life.

Now, I'm going back. Doesn't mean I'm gonna die, doesn't mean I'm gonna live. And honey, don't be afraid showing this to the young'uns. They've seen too much for kids like themselves to be afraid of some cuss words. Grandpa's gonna die. Sad, I know. But that's life. You get born, you get dead. And you do stuff in between. That's the way it works. Sometimes you live life normally, just getting by and doing what you have to do until you can afford to get out of them blasted factories. Sometimes, your name gets pulled out of that glass bowl and you're sent off to die. Fate doesn't have favorites, hon, and my fate picked the latter. But I came back, married your mother, and we had you.

I was born in a world that was filled with the Hunger Games. The day after I was born the second Hunger Games began. My mother was ordered home four hours after my birth and even on my second day of living I was watching people die. It was horrible, too. Of course, I don't remember it, but my father told me that it was bloody. The Capitol made it bloody. They couldn't have everyone just lying around and starving to death like the first time around, could they? Cannons were going off and sent Ole Joey into a fit. The only reason my father was allowed to have a dog was because he was a factory director. But those cannons made Ole Joey go down right ballistic. And apparently every time someone died, Ole Joey barked. Every time Ole Joey barked, I'd wail. Only once. One sob. And that's how I got my name. From my second day of living I watched ten children die, and I watched the Peacekeepers come in our home and shoot my dog.

You were born before the time Victors' chilluns were picked just to mess with their dwindling sanity. Lucky, too. I guess fate decided to cut me some slack. I was good at hiding my feelings, especially when I had them horrible nightmares, but I needed a relief. I was horrified at the possibility that my baby might be chosen for death. When you turned seventeen that devil Snow came into power after our damned President died. Just, bam. No more. I had a funny feeling about that, but I let it slide. As long as he didn't take my baby. And he didn't. I passed his sadistic nature off as tolerable. He didn't take you away from me. About a decade later his little 'side business' began, and I caught news of it when I mentored the young'uns down in the Capitol. But I was married, and far too old already to be used by him. I got a pass from hell. Snow passed over me like I was just a piece of stone on a street, or a piece of fabric in a shirt. And that was just dandy. I didn't want him or his little Games. But I should have known that my hell pass was going to come back and bite me.

I named you Emily for a reason, you know. I always liked that name. It was my mother's name. Of course, you never knew your grandmother. Them factory fumes got to her and she died of the sickness our District is constantly plagued with. I know that's what your mother died of, too. I held my honey's hand as she died. Poor thing. I still miss her, even after all these years. I've written to her as well, but you, Sweet, seem more important at the moment. I'll be talking to your mother soon. I won't be talking to you for a long while, I hope.

Now, I won't be getting a funeral or a coffin or nothing. Not if that plan Cecilia thinks I don't know about actually goes through. She and that Paylor character have been communicating, building up even more of a rebellion. A bunch of the victors are involved in a wide scale rebellion to set us all free. I'm not too much of a part of it, but I know plenty about it. You go ahead and take part when it comes around. Just make sure Rebecca and Eddy are safe enough when the time comes. I love them, and I love you too. Remember that. That is the one thing I will remember, in my current old age and in my death. I love you all. None of this really matters, through and through. Rebellion, Hunger Games, Snow, that sweet Katniss girl, nothing. What matters to me is not that you get my old body back, but that all of you stay alive to remember me. When this is all over I hope you get the chance to take the stone from my front step, wrap it in whatever you got, and mount it where the ashes of the factories lie.

I hope I won't have to see you too soon where I'm going, hon. Keep safe now.


	25. Lavinia

**Hey, look, I'm updating! I'm so proud of myself. Not really. I should be doing this more. Sigh. Anyway, I have it for you people! Yay for requesting! I have found a way to continue this story for a few more chapters! The dilemma has been postponed. Here, take a look. Special chapter, yes! Lavinia is probably one of my favorite characters. In fact, I wrote a one-shot about her for a forum contest. Check it out if you love Lavinia as mush as I do.**

**Another thing. Soo, I've been writing down all these ideas I've been getting, and while I love The Hunger Games, I'm thinking of branching out. So I need to know. How many people out there have read Maximum Ride? I'm thinking of starting a fic over on that fandom. So, unleash your thoughts. Also, don't forget to review! And request! Rest and Relax, Review and Request. Two R&Rs. So, yeah. The story.**

**Disclaimer: I no own. You no sue. I believe we have reached an agreement.**

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**LAVINIA-DISTRICT UNKNOWN**

Dear Mother…

I'm sorry. No matter what happens, trough it all please remember that I'm sorry. For everything.

I'm sorry that I'll never see you again. I know that this won't matter too much for you. You never liked me much, anyway. You hated me. I hated you. Trust me, the feeling is mutual. I was Daddy's little girl. That's one of the reasons I have to leave, actually. The day they took Daddy away…I couldn't take it. You made them take him away. I couldn't live the way I had anymore. I know that you'll think this is my fault, with me acting up lately and everything. Stealing food we didn't need, hiring kids to blow up Peacekeeper's mailboxes. You'll never believe Conlan did the crime, but it's true. I had to protect him. I didn't get to protect Daddy when you forced him away. The only thing I could do was protect my little brother. I owed him that much. I still do.

He killed a Peacekeeper. He didn't mean to do it, I promise. I didn't tell him to do it, either. He and his friends, they were well hidden. They were in the bushes in the end of the square, where Ginny and Dyra live. The Peacekeepers, the bad ones, they were trying to…hurt the girls. Their mother wasn't home. Conlan and his friends started to throw rocks at them. Conlan snuck behind them and…he hit one with a stone. On the head. He didn't have a helmet. He didn't mean to kill him, I swear, Mommy, I swear! But…he ran. Conlan came to me at the shop. You…you're going to get back from work today to find this letter on the dining room table. Sorry about this, and the crack in the table I made when I found out what he had done. But I can't let Conlan get killed. I won't let that happen, Mother. And we both know that you would have let them take him away, no matter how much you love your little boy. Because you love them too much. You let them take Daddy away. You'd make them take me away, if you could. You're a sadistic woman.

And that's why I hate you. Yet I'm still sorry.

I packed clothes and food in two backpacks (you'll have to get more bread later) and I will bring Conlan out like we were going for a walk after I write this. I will say hello to my friends, and will keep my hold on Conlan's hand tight. I'm going to bring him to the fence, the place where it's never electrocuted. But wait, you wouldn't know about that. I wouldn't let you know about that, because then you'd report it to the Peacekeepers and Conlan would be _dead_. As soon as we're out of sight we're going to run. I'm do not want to be telling you where, but we sure aren't going to the Capitol. District Thirteen, Mother. It may not exist, but we're going to die and go to safety. No matter what.

I feel a sense of foreboding, though. I should never tell you, the very personification of evil and horrible, what has happened to us or where we should be going. All I know is that we shall run, Mother, we shall run. If we die, we die. I cannot bring myself to live while Conlan dies, and so I will try my best to live. I will try my best to keep us both alive. I have committed no crime. But I know you don't care. I know that we won't make it. I know we're going to die. I know that when they take us down, no one will be watching but you. You will have the smallest flicker of a smile on your ugly face, looking down at your children. Conlan will cry for you, but all I shall do is spit in your direction. You will have them kill me. You make my life a living hell. But you will discover, Mother, that you cannot live without me. You cannot live without my sense of rebellion, or the instinct of holding Conlan at night. You will drive yourself into the ground out of loyalty for the people who will kill your spirit.

And after everything you've done to me, I am _not_ sorry.

Good riddance, Mother. Good riddance.


	26. Enobaria

**What's up? Thanks to all you reviewers! You know you're awesome, but I'm going to reiterate your awesomeness. So, happy Easter and all that jazz if you celebrate it. What better way to celebrate a happy holiday with the Enobaria letter? I have to say that next to Clove's letter, this is the creepiest. What is up with these wacky D2 girls? Enobaria is just so evil! Though, this was so much _fun_ to write. You'll see why, I hope. But if I start laughing maniacally, we'll know what happened. JK. So enjoy, and stuff. Oh yeah. OK, none of you noticed this, so it probably wasn't prominent. In Woof's letter, I named his grandkids Rebecca and Eddy. I hoped secretly that you would get the connection to Eddy in Mockingjay, but alas. Oh well. **

**ONE more thing. So, a ton of you read Max Ride. That is awesome. So, if I were to post a MR story, would you people read it? Review? Get me started over on that fandom? Because that would be great. Here's a hint. It's an Iggy fic, after the Angel Experiment. So, yeah. Let me know. I've already got four chapters written up, so I'm looking to know if I should post know or later. Thanks bunches, you guys be great. Also, Review and Request!**

**Disclaimer: You know, do you seriously think that if I owed this I would even have a disclaimer? If I owned HG I would be claiming, not disclaiming. Fans be fans, and so on.**

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**ENOBARIA-DISTRICT 2**

They said it was beautiful.

I said that was bullshit.

My teeth were not _beautiful_. I was not _beautiful_. Surviving and conquering was_ not_ abso—freaking—lutely _beautiful_. LIFE wasn't beautiful.

It was deadly. And so was I.

I was unique. Brutus had his mass of bulky ugly muscle to beat people up if need be. Lyme always carried a dagger and an explosive. Me? Ha, _me_. I used my _mouth_.

When I ripped that boy's throat out in my Games, I was desperate. Maybe a little bit crazy. But I needed to win, so I did what I could. I always had perfect teeth. Why not put it to use? Immediately I was the most feared victor there had been in forty-two years of the Hunger Games. I was a legend. The girl who ripped that boy's throat out was coming to the Capitol. Those saps loved me. Everyone else feared me. It was just another reason to assume that the Capitol is _stupid_. So when I got my gold tips implanted (which cost quite a bit of money, but it was worth it), everyone feared me even more. I loved the look of gold. It shined and reflected the utter terror on my victim's face. And I _loved_ it.

That silly little shrink said I suffer from insanity. As I killed him I said I enjoyed every minute of it.

The blood, now _that_ was beautiful.

I'll enjoy killing them all. Brutus the muscle, the stupid little dream team of Gloss and Cashmere, and me. It all comes down to me, doesn't it? The Girl On Fire will never be able to get married, or have kids, or any of that shitty stuff normal people do. I will emerge victorious. Uh, _again_. It will probably come down to Brutus and I, because I'll have him take out any major threats. Then, as soon as he kills the last person, I'll stick my knife right in his neck, and rip it out with my teeth for good measure. Don't go on about all those morals and crap, because I have none. No ethics, no morals. They all kind of dissolved when I turned three, after I killed the maid with the kitchen knife. Enough said.

I'll especially enjoy taking that Seeder woman down. All of her happy vibes make me nauseous. All of her 'doing what's right' and 'treating people kindly' and 'respect others'. It makes me sick. 'Sharing is caring!'

Sharing is _shit_.

All the little people, they'll all be gone soon. Because I've heard of rumors of rebellion, and let me say that they have _no chance_. Yeah, the Hunger Games aren't peaches and daises, but they're a hell of a lot better than war. What was it that a few kids died every year? That many kids died every year with or without the Hunger Games, from sickness and starvation and crap. Kids in the Capitol died from overeating, but do you see them crying? Oh, well, it may have been just that _one_ kid…but they're just kids, anyway. It was survival of the fittest anywhere you go. This just sped up the process, in my opinion. But of _course_, people are all 'Save the children' and stuff. What have children ever done for me? Squat. That's _right_.

Sure, I might die. But as far as I'm concerned is that I'll still have my teeth in the afterlife, and I'll be with the people I can actually tolerate. And then I can terrorize all the people I hate. As long as I have my gold teeth.

So, if you actually care (which I'm pretty sure you don't, and that's fine by me), you can throw me a funeral or a party or whatever. Maybe you could have a pony ride to celebrate. I don't care, because I never really gave a crap about any of you, as long as I actually get buried and stuff. I want to get shipped to hell properly and in style. In a gold coffin, with blood red cushions.

Now _death_. _That_ was beautiful.


	27. Blight

**Wow. What is UP with me? I'm on a writing spree! That rhymed. Anyway. So, this isn't my favorite chapter, but it had to be written. The whole entire time I was writing it I couldn't stop thinking of how Blight is portrayed in the book and how little a part he has. And, I figured it was about time I stopped avoiding writing for him. :P**

**OH yeah. I just posted (like literally, JUST posted) my new Max Ride fic! *streamers and confetti* It is called Made Again. I hope you all check it out! Thanks so much for you people really pushing me to post it :) I don't think I would have yet otherwise. SO. Read yet another chapter of this here story! I hope these 3 updates make up for the fact that I won't be posting again for a while...sad. But I'll try. In the meantime, review! request! Yay!**

**Disclaimer: I always did wonder why Suzanne Collins named Blight after a plant disease. But I cannot change it, because I do not own.**

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**BLIGHT- DISTRICT 7**

How would you feel to be named after a plant disease? Yeah. I know.

District Seven. Home. Hell. Whatever you like to call it. I don't expect to go back. Ever. I'll probably never see the trees again. Not that I'd want to. But, who would care? No one, that is. No one would really miss the Blight in the family. I mean, it wasn't like I would miss a bunch of them, either, but it's nice to be wanted. I was never really wanted. My sister's nice enough, I guess. Maybe she'll miss me. But Floret was always liked. I wasn't. I'm more introverted. It comes with being yelled at. It wasn't really my fault I was born after my dad died of disease, but did I have to be named after one? I find that cruel and unusual. No one else in Seven was named after plant disease. Everyone was named after flowers or trees or something. Or they had a normal name. I'd like one of those.

Not that I really cared about my name. My family was messed up. _Is_ messed up. Floret is the only one who is actually going to do something with her life in the future. Rind died in the lumberyards, and Dad died before I was born. I'd be sad if I knew him, but I didn't. My Ma had problems. I learned not to speak much. She would always yell and stuff. That made me mad. A lot of things made me mad, or sad. I didn't get happiness a lot. Happiness was walking to school with Floret everyday once I turned six. Not much else.

So how is it that with my rotten luck (though no one has good luck in Seven) I got Reaped? That wasn't exactly _fair_. But such is life, right? Maybe I'd be reborn in like District Four or something. I heard that place was nice. Or maybe I'd be reborn outside of Panem. That'd be nicer. Right now I just feel like a lamb lost in the woods. Small. Confused. The Capitol does that to you. I don't really see the appeal here. But Floret always did say I was a pessimist.

Let me tell you…whoever you are, I did not want to go up that stage. For one, the wood looked like it was going to cave in. And I was going to die. That's always a downside. Our escort this year is some guy with lime green spiked hair. It's creepy. He's creepy. Frond, the girl tribute, is really chatty, too. I mean, how can someone from Seven be so darn happy? She keeps trying to talk to me, too. I just want her to get the hint that I don't talk a lot. It's a waste of energy. I'd like to tell Frond that if she keeps talking she's going to use up all of her energy and then she'll be dead within the gong sounding in the arena. But that would be mean. I'm not too used to being mean. Floret said that there's only one mean bone in my body. I guess that'd better than, like, ten.

Another thing. Is it completely necessary to dress the District Seven tributes up as trees? For the fifty-sixth time? We were already named after leaves and arboreal disease, so did they even have to take it one step further? I guess they did. And then our training scores were so average Frond started crying. Crying wasn't really my thing, but I was sad too. There's not a big chance of us surviving. So I crawled in bed and started to write this. I don't know whom it's really to, though. It's not like I can send it to Floret, and Ma wouldn't care. I guess I'm just writing it to be writing it. It keeps the nightmares of what to come away, just sitting here with a little light. Reminds me of when the electricity went out and all Floret had to study was a tiny light. I feel like that now. But the sense of foreboding I have is death, not a bad grade. If only.

I don't want to die. I really don't. Who does? I mean, it's not like I have much to live for, and the Victors in Seven are really nasty. I don't think it'd be worth much more than life. But I'm scared of death. After Rind died…just…no. I don't want to die. Frond doesn't want to die. No one does. But it happens. It's bound to happen, someday. But if I can prolong it, I will. I know how to use a knife. And an axe. If I can even get an axe. That would be helpful. I don't want to kill. But I don't want to die. I may look all tough and big, but I _really_ don't like death. I don't think there's anyone as secretly afraid of it as I am. Maybe…maybe I have a chance, because of that. Maybe, if I tried hard enough, and closed my eyes as they died…I could win. Oh, no. Frond's crying. I can't kill Frond. I just can't. I don't know if I can kill _anyone_. But a guy's gotta try, right?

If I die, I hope Floret will take care of it. Just Floret. Ma wouldn't do anything, so I bet she'd take care of me. It would be horribly small, the service. If I get one at all. But I'm okay with that. Floret and Ma and maybe a couple people who knew me around would come. Though I bet Frond's service will be bigger. Better. She has a lot of friends. Mobs and mobs of fourteen-year-old girls. They'll all be sobbing and whatnot. Floret won't sob for me. She doesn't sob. We aren't very big criers. I'll get a goodbye and a tear and some words, and then the third man of our family to die will be lowered down into the earth of District Seven. Well, maybe I'll stay there, maybe I'll wake up in a better place. Theoretically. All I know is that I'd rather suffer through Ma than die at the hands of a Career. I'd rather stay in District Seven and live a bad life. It had to be better than this. District Seven must be better.

I mean, it wasn't all that much. But it was home.


	28. Backpack Boy

**'Sup? Guess what? It's my birthday! Yay. So, here is a shorter-than-usual-kind-of-morbid-but-epic-forgotten-tribute-birthday-themed letter for you. Thanks for all the awesome reviewers, and...yeah! I don't have a lot to say. So...review...and enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games. Or the unnamed Backpack Boy from D9. I'm pretty sure it wasn't his birthday either, but hey. I don't own, do I? No.**

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**BACKPACK BOY- DISTIRCT 9**

Well then.

This sucks.

I died for a _backpack_. A. Backpack. A stupid bright flimsy neon orange thing that would have gotten me spotted anyway. I didn't need it. It wasn't necessary. There was a dark green pack just twenty feet away. A bigger, more inconspicuous pack, just a bit farther away.

But instinct does funny stuff, you know.

So I ran toward the bright, horribly conspicuous neon backpack. I grabbed it, and I was sure that I could grab that machete that I saw ten more feet to my right before dashing into the tall grass near the lake. Then, from there? I wasn't sure. I didn't even think that I would get that far. Huh. I was right. Funny (not). I saw the Girl On Fire running, too, but I thought I could take her. She might be high and fancy with whatever sort of weapon she used to get her an eleven in training, but she was weaponless now. I could at least subdue her enough to get the machete. Of course I could. But then, I got this sharp little pain in my back. Then my neck. I kept my grip on the backpack. Who knew what was in it? It could save my life! Who cared about the pain in my back? Who cared about the stupid Girl On Fire? All that mattered was—oh crap.

It was my birthday, too.

I felt this horrible, grinding feeling in my throat. Before I knew it, blood was everywhere. I didn't even understand. The Girl on Fire screamed, but I was down on the ground, puking up blood. I reached back feebly and tried to pull out the knife that was draining me of my life, but all I got was air, and a mouthful of dirt. All I could see was the grass, and the tiny vision of the Twelve girl running, running with my orange backpack behind her head. A dagger pierced it, but didn't pierce the girl. Of all the rotten luck. Of everything that could have happened to me, to have been cheated out of life for a bright orange _backpack_ was cruel. It was just cruel. And I all could do was bleed and bleed as the girl ran away, not a care for me. Not a care, not a thought. I can guarantee it.

This was a horrible birthday.

Of course, it wasn't as if it mattered. I liked life, but doesn't everyone, deep down? You may not like _your_ life (I know I hated mine), but everyone is fond of living. Just living. And to have that taken away from you, to have it ripped from your clutches like it was the best piece of bread on the table, is the greatest crime ever committed. That's why I knew that the girl who killed me (for I would never know her name) would die. Everyone dies. But, as my mother said, every time you kill something living, you kill a little bit of yourself. I was fine with that. I just wanted to go home. But I realize, now, that if I had stooped to that level, then I would have perished either way. From a sword blade, poison, fire, anything. Every time a person kills, you kill a little bit of yourself. But hey, don't mark me as some philosopher or crap. I'm dead. It's not like I can make a difference anymore. But maybe I'll wake up one day, as a new person. A person, outside of Panem. Oh, now _that_ would be a great birthday present.

So, I have one word to say to you. And one word to say to the Girl on Fire. Are you ready? Watch. Just watch. Because even though you lost me the moment that cannon went _boom_, keep watching. I'll come back someday. Somehow. In…memory, or some crap like that. And you, Miss Katniss. I hate your name. But watch. You took that backpack from me, without really caring what happened to me. I didn't much care what happened to you, either. You were the one who came out on top, but watch your back. They're going to try to get you. Ominous, right?

Take that backpack. I don't want it. I don't need it anymore, anyway. Maybe I'll wake up in a new body someday, who knows? Maybe I'll live in a world where the word circus doesn't translate to death, and bread doesn't translate to slavery. Maybe I'll be happy. Hey, maybe I'll wake up in a world where I can actually afford a cake. That'd be nice. With chocolate frosting, and sixteen candles, all around the edge. I'll wait for that. But I have to wait. Because right now, I'm dead.

Happy birthday to me.


	29. Lyme

**Aw, I told you guys I wouldn't give up on this story :)**

**Even though -sniffle- I only got ONE review the last chapter, I am finally continuing. It has been SO hard to write this story -rips hair out in frustration but not really-. But I would like to thank alicemaybrandonjones for reviewing the last chapter. Please, review. And request! I feel like this story will end in the 40's chapters, but you can't be too sure. Let me know someone's still out there reading :)**

**Disclaimer: Do I _look_ like I own the Hunger Games? Well I don't. That's right, you walk away.**

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**LYME-DISTRICT 2**

Don't you dare.

Don't you freaking _dare_ say I have no chance. That I'll lose. That I'll die. Don't you ever even think that I am the girl that will be buried in a month in the freaking Graveyard of Shitting Shame. I am a warrior. I am a survivor. And that's what I do. Survive. Conquer. Reign. Kill _anyone_ that comes in the way of what I want. So do not even try to tell me I cannot do anything. Because the last person who did that, well…

Let's just say they're not around to give you all of the details.

Step one: Kill and win. Survive and live the life of terrorizing my enemies and raising more warriors in District Two. Act like death is the desired effect for all of us sadists and follow the Capitol "blindly".

Step two: Make District Two the most feared place in Panem, other than the Capitol, and build the reputation of brutes and murderers (though it isn't like it's not true). Then use my influence to get people to start undermining the damned Capitol and boil up the hate inside of that wretched excuse for a mountain. Spread the quiet word, and slit the throats of whoever overhears me.

Step three: Kill _everyone_.

You know, in the Capitol. President Snow will rue the day when he will place that crown on my head. Future Victor of the Fifty-Sixth Hunger Games my ass. More like Future Assassin of the Leader of the Enslaved World and Savior of Panem and Shit.

But now, I had to focus. Focus on ruling. Killing. Winning.

Now, all of us suckers in this freaking world know that the Hunger Games aren't the first slice of pie. And for those who are insane, those so amazingly and utterly crazy (guilty as charged) enough to _volunteer_ for such a death sentence…well, we aren't the most trustworthy pea in the rotting pod. So maybe that's why the escorts avoid us like we have the Mountain Sickness, or why we get the loudest cheers whatsoever in the Chariot Rides.

Because insane tributes make good television, as they say.

I knew I wasn't insane. At least, I wasn't insane clinically. District Two had a way of twisting kids around at a young age, teaching them the ways of monsters so that the Capitol would still love us. I mean, if there was no one who knew how to fight in the Hunger Games, how were things supposed to be interesting? How were kids supposed to die?

Uh, maybe they _wouldn't_.

It's because of my father that I want the Capitol to fall. Or, just the Hunger Games to crumble. Because when I was seven my brother was forced into the Hunger Games by our creator. And he _died_. He. Freaking. Died.

When I was two I was given a dagger to hold instead of a doll. At seven I could kill a grown man. I could very much well have killed my father.

And I wanted to _so_ bad.

He lied to me. When you're seven, not seventeen, this is a big deal. He told me, just like he told my brother, that if we trained hard enough and fought well we would live, survive, conquer…and have a big house. Big alas, this was not so. And it was at age seven that I learned really what death was. I knew how to kill, and I was going to.

It was at age seven I decided to kill the people that made me kill them. And yes, that makes sense. I would kill them. I would kill them slowly.

I was going to take out my fury on these tributes. Save for a few, almost every tribute's face would be replaced by the devil and his demons as I killed them. Save for a few. Because some of the tributes were just so freaking _annoying_.

And _damn_, how I hated the District Four girl. What was her name? _Coral_? I couldn't wait until I got to kill her. I could imagine it now, taking my dagger and running down her face, and then her neck, and her chest all in a straight line. She would scream, yes, she would scream, but no one should hear that. I would sing, haunting her mind and making a good show of it, too. Everyone would fear me, just as they should.

"_Hush little baby, don't say a word._" I would rasp, feeling the girl tremble beneath me. And then the girl would change to the Head Peacekeeper, and then Seneca Crane, my father, and then President Shitting Snow. And then the world would be rid of all the horrible people in the world. And it will be all because of me. You can thank me when it's done.

Because I'm just a caring person.


End file.
